


The Latest Dream (I Ever Dreamt)

by Alatariel_Galadriel



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Coraline (2009), Coraline - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is Trying, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Except I don't really know how to write comfort oops, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I watched Coraline again and was like wow, Jason Todd is Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Tim is Not Having A Good Time, Tim is making bad life choices only, Tim is very smart, not horror but kind of creepy, rated t for jason, the beldam would love tiny Tim, tim is the "this is fine" meme personified
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28635363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alatariel_Galadriel/pseuds/Alatariel_Galadriel
Summary: Tim Drake, a lonely and forgotten eleven-year-old, is the perfect feast for the Beldam.A Coraline/Batfam fusion.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 97
Kudos: 305





	1. Tim

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pulling from a mixture of both the Coraline book and movie for this. I nixed the “parents are trapped” plotline, so when Tim made his deal with the Beldam, he agreed to find the eyes and the key (which was in the snowglobe instead of his parents). Tim is around 11 and stalking Batman, Jason is nearly 15 and is busy being Robin.  
> The title is from the poem "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", which has very similar vibes to Coraline.  
> Enjoy!

Tim scrambles through the tunnel, ignoring the scrapes and bruises that scream at him almost as loudly as the echoing shrieks of the Other Mother. He clutches his one hope at safety, the key, so tightly in his hand that he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. Spiderwebs cling and stick, slowing him down and making him lose precious seconds and the tunnel—so wonderous and bright before—is hot and wet and _breathing_. Tim finds himself grateful for the pitch darkness, because at least in the black he can’t see whatever the tunnel has become, old and slow and horrifically alive. 

The journey back feels far longer than when he first entered, despite his frantic speed. When he finally, finally sees the faint outline of the door, he nearly cries in relief. He hauls himself through the tiny door, tumbling onto the floor of the room in his home, his real home. Slamming the door behind him as fast as he can, Tim shoves his back against it to keep it closed. He swears he can still hear the Beldam screaming. He has to lock it, has to keep her out, but his hands shake and the key won’t fit, as if the door itself is refusing to be sealed. A few seconds later, the key slides in, turns, and the click of the lock sliding into place is so loud it seems to echo. 

It’s still not enough, not with the image of the other door— _her_ door, bending and shaking and glowing green with the sheer force of her power— burned into his eyelids. Tim scrambles for the oak armoire in the corner of the room, pushes it with all his strength. The wardrobe is empty but still outweighs Tim, and he struggles to move it more than an inch at a time. Painfully slowly, he manages to shove it in front of the door. Tim slumps to floor, heaving for breath. 

The sudden silence is overwhelming. He takes a minute, just a moment, to breathe. He made it out. Tim glances down at the key, still in his hand. He wants to let go, slide the kay and chain around his neck where he can keep it safe, but his fingers won’t release, clenched so tight in such a panic that they might as well been carved from stone. He uses his other hand to pry his fingers of the key, one by one. Struck by sudden fear—What if it was a trap? He hasn’t left at all; this was part of the Beldam’s plan—Tim races to the window and pries it open. Between the branches of the tree pressed against the side of the house, Tim can see the full moon (and it is a moon, not a button hung in the sky) just rising over the horizon. His adrenaline leaves him in a rush, leaving him sagged against the windowsill. 

The room looks unreal in its monotony, washed out by the dim light, all eggshell whites and clean beige carpet. The Other world and its bright colors feel almost like a dream (or was this the dream?) but the hastily moved armoire and his own cobweb-covered hands bely the truth. Tim walks over and flicks the light switch, flooding the room with artificial yellow light. He winces—the carpet is horribly smudged with dirt and blood from where he landed in his mad dash for escape. He’ll need to clean it up before his parents come home, he thinks inanely. Not now, though, not when the thought of spending even one more second near that tiny, inconspicuous door leaves his skin crawling. 

He strides out the room, waiting until the very last moment before he slams the door to turn off the light. Pausing, Tim digs through his pockets. He knows he has—there! Tim pulls out the house’s master key from one of his pockets and locks the door behind them. He rushes back through the house, flicking on lights and locking every door he passes through. It was dumb, it was childish, but every door he locked made him feel just the tiniest bit safer, more in control. 

His room hasn’t changed. He didn’t know why he had expected it to. With a sudden burst of energy, Tim shoved his bed until it was nestled into the corner of his room instead of the center. A reminder that he made it out, he wasn’t there. Tim’s legs crumple beneath him with the last of his strength, leaving him half-collapsed on the floor. His hands were bloody, he notes distantly. They don’t hurt, strangely. His palms are scraped to hell, his fingernails torn and bleeding. Bruises blossom on his wrist, in the shape of his Other Mother’s hand, deep scratches where her needle-like nails had dug in. His ankle would probably be the same, from when she had grabbed him and dragged him back so he wouldn’t get away and she was waiting with her spider limbs and needle-fingers to sew the buttons and—Tim couldn’t catch his breath, he was shaking, he was _so cold_. He needed to stop, he needed to breathe, he needed—Tim clamps a hand over his mouth, forcibly stopping his gasps. He made it out. The Beldam was trapped. He was safe. Tim forces himself to look around the room, counting and naming what he can see in an effort to ground himself. 

Even as his breathing evens out, he can’t stop shaking, and he’s still so, so cold. He forces himself to stand up, staggers to the bathroom. Suddenly parched, he drinks straight from the sink’s tap, stomach rolling uncomfortably despite his thirst. When he glances up at the mirror, he barely recognizes himself, covered in dirt and cobwebs and blood. He needs a shower, needs to be clean and warm, so he peels off the clothes she had given him and puts them directly into the trash. He keeps the key around his neck, keeps the children’s eyes and the stone in eyesight and within arm’s reach at all times. He can’t lose them. He turns on the shower, but even with the water rushing it’s still too quiet and he swears he can hear the Beldam’s laugh, so he grabs his phone from the nightstand and blasts his music as loud as he can. 

He finally starts to feel warm nearly twenty minutes into his shower, starts feeling like himself again a few minutes after that. The hot water stings against all his cuts and scrapes and even the light pressure makes his bruises (the mice had toppled the fire escape and he had fallen a floor and a half but it hadn’t mattered because they had escaped with the eyes and he had lost the stone and his time was running out) smart and sting. The pain, though, draws him back into himself piece by piece, until he no longer feels unreal and untethered but instead sick and so, so tired. He stays in the shower until water starts going cold, then drags himself out. 

He looks…less horrible when he steps out, pale and bruised but no longer looking like he jumped straight out of a horror movie. He digs under the sink for his little bag of medical supplies and pours some hydrogen peroxide on his cuts and scrapes, wincing as it bubbles and stings. He wraps his sluggishly bleeding palms and knees in bandages, puts a few band aids on the smaller scratches and scrapes. He swallows a few ibuprofen before dressing in the softest sweats he has, wrapping himself in a blanket and turning on the TV. 

The noise of the TV isn’t enough to fill the silence of the house—it never had been before, either. Tim’s room was the most lively and lived-in part of his house, but it wasn’t enough. He wants his parents, he realizes, his _real_ parents to be here, to tell him everything is okay. His parents weren’t good at comfort, they were barely even passable, but anything, anything at all, would be better than sitting and hearing the Beldam in every creak and sigh of the house. 

Tim is so, so tired, but he knows he won’t be sleeping tonight. He wants to leave, walk until he reaches the streets of Gotham, just for proof that he really made it out. He wants to track down Batman and Robin and take pictures like it’s just another normal night. Tim is halfway out of his seat when he realizes he just—can’t. Not tonight. He’s hurt, he’s exhausted, he’s pretty sure he’s still in shock; if he goes out tonight, it will be a miracle if he comes back in one piece. Tim settles back onto the couch and stares blankly at the T.V. Despite his best efforts, he can’t stop thinking about how it started, before it all went wrong and the Other Mother pulled out the buttons. He wishes he hadn’t had that taste of how life could be. Tim hadn’t let the Beldam sew the buttons. He won. 

He has the sneaking sense that he has lost part of himself anyways. 


	2. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has found some alarming levels of magical energy coming from Drake Manor. Batman and Robin head off to check it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: This isn’t really important, but some minor details hinge on this: I’m following the timeline of the book, where Coraline only travels back and forth twice rather than four times. The first time she leaves is when the Beldam offers the buttons only to discover her parents are missing, then goes back to rescue them. Tim’s parents don’t factor into this plot, so Tim only entered/left once.

Bruce is a hairbreadth from calling off patrol— it’s barely eleven, but between the miserable sleet and the fact that the worst of the rogues are in Arkham, it’s shaping up to be a slow night—when the alert rings out. Bruce stiffens, leaping to his feet. but the alarm lasts barely fifteen seconds before stopping as abruptly as it started. It was same one from two days ago, the one that cut off too quickly for him to track down the source. 

“What’s up, B?” Jason asks, already on his feet. 

Bruce grunts in acknowledgement, busy checking to see if the updated code managed to triangulate the signal this time. 

“I don’t speak caveman, Batman,” Jason says, “What’s going on?” 

“It’s an alert,” Bruce explains absently, focus on where the coordinates should appear once the calculations have finished, “For incredibly strong outputs of energy.” 

“What, like a bomb? Why are we still here, then?” Jason is already unhooking his grapple, so Bruce snags Jason’s cape (thank God for the cape, it was practically a child leash for impulsive Robins) before Jason can take more than a few steps. 

“No. No bomb. Magical energy.” The device pings, displaying the coordinates. 

“Well jeez, B, that doesn’t answer the question! Why’re we still here?” Robin bats at Batman’s hand, ineffectively. 

“It’s not an emergency, Robin. Stand down.” 

Jason, for the moment at least, stopped trying to twist his cape out of Bruce’s grip. 

“While the strength of the output is…unusual, it lasted less than fifteen seconds. No other alarms or alerts have been tripped. I’d say it was a false alarm, but—”

“You don’t believe in those,” Jason interrupted. 

“But,” Bruce repeats, a little louder, “There was a similar burst two days ago. Less than thirty seconds, but strong enough to be concerning. I couldn’t get the location before it stopped, or major events linked to it after the fact.” 

“So,” Jason draws out the word, “You being the paranoid bastard that you are, you set up something to catch the coordinates faster this time, right?” 

Bruce fought back the slightest hint of a smile. 

“Language, Robin. I got the coordinates, but you need to be patient; I don’t know the address yet.” 

Jason sighs dramatically, tension deflating, which was Bruce’s goal. It’s true, he hasn’t checked the address that’s popped up, it’s just, well, entertaining to make Jason wait. He plugs the address in and—

“It’s at—” He pauses. That couldn’t be right. 

“Seriously, B, quit being dramatic get on with it!” 

“It’s Drake Manor,” Bruce says slowly, already pulling up any records of the Drakes he can find. 

“Like…the next-door Drake Manor?” Robin blinks, “They’re like…as upper crust as upper crust gets, what are they doing messing with magic?” 

Bruce grunts, still flicking through records. 

“Power or more money, maybe. The ‘upper crust’ certainly have the funds to ‘play’ with magic” And the funds to sweep any…unfortunate consequences under the rug, Bruce thinks privately. 

Jason snorts. 

“You do realize you’re the upper crust, too, B?” 

Bruce’s retort is on the tip of his tongue when a news article catches his attention. 

“The Drakes have been in Sudan for the last three months. It’s unlikely to be them.” 

They were archeologists, he knew. Maybe they brought back an artifact from a dig site that was emitting the energy. But why would it have been triggered now? 

“So, then, we go and check it out,” Robin says, already moving, “If we break in, we can finally get out of this godforsaken weather.” 

* * *

Warning bells immediately go off in Bruce’s head as they approach Drake Manor. The lights are on. Not all of them, mind, but a decent number of windows are lit from within. Bruce considers the possibility of a cleaning team, but just as quickly dismissed it. With the Drake’s gone, the cleaning service could come at any point in the day. They wouldn’t be there at eleven at night. 

“My bet is on squatters,” Jason says, “Or, could be some sorta cult taking advantage of the empty space.” 

Bruce glances at him. It’s certainly a possibility, in Gotham, but he’s really hoping to avoid any cults this week. Cults are always, always a headache. 

Once they get closer to the house, Bruce taps Jason’s shoulder. 

“You take the left, I’ll take the right, we meet at the southwest corner.” Jason nods, starts to move, but Bruce calls him back. 

“Jason. Do not go inside.” Bruce instructs, making sure Jason makes eye contact. Putting aside the risk of triggering the Drake’s undoubtably robust security system, Jason is not entering that house without Bruce at his side. Not with so much unknown. 

Jason huffs, but obligingly trots off to check in the nearest window, keeping low. Bruce heads towards the other side of the house. 

All of the rooms are empty, even the ones with their lights on, each room blending together in their monotony. Nothing even slightly out of place. It’s almost too spotless, but Bruce reminds himself that it’s likely the only people who’ve entered the house for the last few months have been the cleaning crew. He’s almost reached the southwest corner when Jason’s voice comes over the comms. 

“Hey, B, there’s a kid in here,” Jason sounds nonplussed. “He’s on the first floor, sixth window from southwest corner of the building.” 

Bruce is moving before Jason finishes his sentence. 

“Stay out of sight, Jason. What is he doing?” 

“I’m not an idiot, B, he’s not gonna see me. He’s watching T.V, and I’m pretty sure he’s—B, I thought you said the Drakes are out of town?” Bruce rounds the corner. 

“They are,” Bruce says. He stops next to where Jason is hidden, glances through the window, and—that’s definitely Timothy Drake. He’s seen the boy a few times at various functions and galas over the years, and that’s definitely him; maybe nine or ten years old, with Jack’s dark hair and Janet’s eyes. 

“I’ve seen him at school before,” Jason says, “His name is Timothy, right? That’s the Drake kid?” 

Bruce grunts. Timothy is wrapped head to toe in a blanket, watching T.V with glazed eyes and wet hair plastered to his head. The room is a stark contrast to the rest of the house, messy and disorganized with clothes and paper strewn across the floor and posters on the walls. Though there are no open suitcases or signs of recent unpacking, Bruce notes. 

Jason snorts, “We’ve got a fan! Wow, he’s even got those weird lil’ figurines!” He points at a shelf, where sure enough, there was a lineup of various Batman, Robin, and Batgirl figurines, as well as what looks like a fairly decent replica batarang. 

“He’s even got a poster; I didn’t know they made those with us on them!” Jason continues, “I should definitely get one, that would be hilarious—

“Did you see any signs of anyone else?” Bruce cuts Jason off before he can go too far into his tangent. 

Jason shakes his head easily. 

“Nah, but all the lights on the back side of the manor are off. We could’ve missed them sleeping somewhere, since they came back earlier.” 

Bruce hums under his breath, checks his records again. A social media status from fifteen minutes ago definitively places both Jack and Janet in Sudan. 

“The parents are definitely overseas,” he says, “But you’re right, we could have easily missed a nanny or au pair.” 

Jason frowns at that. 

“I thought you said they’ve been gone for a few months?” 

Bruce nods absently. Timothy’s presence means that its unlikely anyone broke into the house. That brings Bruce back to his artifact theory, but any precious artifacts the Drakes may own would be kept under lock and key, making it nearly impossible for Timothy to gain access to them. Children and priceless, fragile objects don’t mix well together, a lesson Bruce had learned very early on from Dick. The nanny, maybe, could’ve gained access to the theoretical artifacts, but thinking back, Bruce hadn’t seen any artifacts on display while he was casing the manor. 

If it wasn’t directly or indirectly caused by Timothy or the nanny, it could be an entirely unrelated phenomenon. An interdimensional rift, if large enough, could be enough to trigger his alarm. But the last two alerts had lasted only a few seconds, and rifts tended to be more stable than that. The few he’d seen typically lasted around ten to thirty minutes, wavering in intensity. The readings from earlier didn’t match that. But why twice in the same place? 

Jason interrupts Bruce’s train of thought with a hard slap on the arm. 

“B! I’m talking to you!” 

Bruce looked at him, eyebrows raised. Jason raises his eyebrows right back. 

“You’re thinking too much, B,” he says, “Stop it.” 

Bruce hadn’t thought his eyebrows could get higher, but _that_ sure made him try. Jason barges on. 

“That much magic means something obviously, extremely, weird happened two days ago and then like fifteen minutes ago, right? And that much magic would be, like super obvious. So, what are the chances that both the kid and whoever’s watching him _didn’t_ notice anything either time?” 

Jason is on the right track. The next step is to interrogate potential witnesses, but Bruce wants to hear Jason’s plan. He nods, encouraging Jason continue. 

“We don’t even really need the nanny, kids notice stuff adults don’t. Or, at least, they won’t dismiss anything hinky that doesn’t make sense. And just look at his room, B, the kid’s obviously a fan, I bet he’d snitch on the nanny, or fuck, even Mom and Dad, if they have something to do with it. “

“Language, Robin.” Bruce says, but pride softens his tone to the point where there’s no bite behind it. Jason puffs himself up. 

“You blocking my freedom of speech, tyrant?” 

Bruce takes everything back, if he has to go through this again. He sighs, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Freedom of speech does not apply to profanity, Jason. And I am not the government.” 

Jason’s voice takes on a teasing lilt. 

“Oh, so _now_ the vigilante cares about legal technicalities! Y’know, B, a little birdy told me vigilante justice is, in fact, illegal”. 

“I can inform Alfred of your language,” Bruce reminds him. Jason blows a raspberry in response. 

“You’re no fun, B. Anyways, since I told you about my brilliant idea, how do we actually get little Timmy over there to talk to us?” 

“We knock, Robin.” Bruce turns and strides back, hearing Robin scramble to catch up. 

“Wait, B, are you serious? Batman doesn’t knock! That’ll ruin your whole ‘I am the night’ vibe!” 

“Would you rather I break in and give the child a heart attack?” 

“I think the cognitive dissonance of Batman standing on the front stoop like a neighbor asking for sugar will break his _brain_.” 

“I think Timothy will be fine,” Bruce says drily as they reach the front door. 

In front of that door, though, their good humor vanishes. Something about Drake Manor just feels wrong. Bruce doesn’t know if Jason feels it too, but listening to that feeling has saved Bruce’s life more times than he can count. He hesitates. 

“Remember, Robin, whatever was in this house is dangerous. Stay on your toes.” 

He knocks, the sound echoing hollowly through the manor. Jason rolls his shoulders back, bounces a few times. 

“Gotcha, B,” Jason replies seriously, just as the door starts to open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason is right, Tim's brain is going to break a little bit next chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed!


	3. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim’s life is a tower of carefully balanced secrets, and Batman’s questions threaten to send it all toppling down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate summary: Tim: No, no, everything is great over here, everything is FINE!  
> Bruce and Jason: Hm. Seems suspect.

The knock, loud and echoing through the largely silent house, startles Tim—half-asleep despite himself—enough that he nearly topples off the couch. For a split second, he is convinced that it’s the Beldam. By the time he’s fought himself free from the blanket, however, the more logical side of his brain wins out (although logic didn’t matter in the Beldam’s world, reality morphed and twisted but _Tim still has the key_ so he’s safe) because why would the Beldam knock? The Beldam has no reason for niceties now that Tim’s seen the truth of her world. When—no, if¬¬—the Beldam came back, she won’t pretend. 

But then who’s at the door? It’s far too late for any deliveries, and no one else ever visits Drake Manor. Unless—his parents. He barely registers the thought before he is racing towards the door, ignoring the headrush that briefly fuzzes his vision. His parents weren’t due home for nearly a month, and they were always late, never early, but _just this once_ he needs it to be them. They knew, somehow, in the way parents are supposed to know, that something was wrong, and they came back. Tim skids around the corner, socks sliding on hardwood, ignoring his aches and pains and just barely manages to stop himself in front of the door. He yanks it open and—

Batman and Robin. On his front stoop. Tim’s brain screeches to a halt because Batman and Robin are rooftops and flying and Gotham and _definitely_ not standing on his porch like some kind of normal neighbor. A rush of relief hits him—Batman and Robin mean _safety_ and protection from any kind of monster—but why are they here? Just as quickly as the relief, his blood turns to ice. 

They know. They know he’s been he’s been stalking them on the rooftops for nearly four years now and he thought he’d been careful enough, but if they’d seen him and tracked him down—what will they do? They can’t stop him, they just can’t, his photos are the one good thing he has right now, and—do they know he knows their identities? Batman doesn’t kill, but Tim is a loose end and the one thing he knows for sure is that Batman doesn’t abide loose ends, and what are they _doing here?_

Somewhere underneath the screaming panic, Tim knows the silence has lasted for several beats too long, but he can’t—he doesn’t know what’s happening. He can’t move forwards, not when everything is falling apart and he just doesn’t _know_. Tim’s whole life is a teetering tower of secrets and right now, when he’s shaking and hurt and terrified of every shadow, is the worst time imaginable for it all to come crashing down. 

“Timothy Drake?” Batman asks, as if he doesn’t know _exactly_ who Tim is, as if Batman hasn’t clearly put in the effort to track him down, as if he hasn’t met Tim before as Bruce. 

Tim nods, can’t bring himself to open his mouth. Batman is looking at him expectantly and Tim knows he’s supposed to be talking because any _normal_ kid would be thrilled to have Batman on his doorstep, but Tim doesn’t what Batman knows or wants and refuses to give away more than he has. He just stands there, until Robin elbows Batman in the side. 

“His brain, B,” Robin hisses, and what? What does that even mean? Before Tim can work himself further into panic, Robin steps forward. 

“Hey there, Timmy! We’re sorry to drop in on you like this, but it’s a little bit of an emergency. See, Batman has been getting some really strange readings from your house these past few days, and we wanted to check to see if you’ve noticed anything, y’know,” Robin wiggles his fingers, “Weird.” 

The wave of relief nearly knocks Tim cross-eyed. They _don’t know_. 

“I—um, I don’t—” Tim starts, but he doesn’t—what does he say? Oh, yeah, I got lured into an alternate dimension by a soul-eating monster pretending to be my mom and escaped like thirty minutes ago? Is that the kind of weird you’re talking about? 

Batman would believe him, he knows. The Beldam probably wouldn’t even make the top ten weirdest thing Batman has heard this week. But even putting the whole stalking thing aside, Tim really can’t afford to have Batman investigating around his life. Tim’s parents love him, he knows they do, but they’re busy, and no one seems to understand just how _important_ their jobs are to them. They’re happiest when they’re on their digs, and Tim will not be the one to drag them away from that. So far, Tim’s been able to balance the tightrope and keep a few nosy teachers off his case, but Batman is the world’s greatest detective. He has to—

“Take your time,” Robin says, looking…sympathetic? “This big lug may seem intimidating, but deep down, just awkward.” 

If Robin thinks he’s just intimidated, maybe starstuck, Tim can work with that. Start with basics. If he was a random kid, he’d be really confused right now. Tim can do confused. He shoves his panic down, forces himself to take a deep breath. He can do this. 

“Um, no? Everything’s been normal?” He says, mildly surprised when his voice doesn’t crack. He subtly makes sure his hands, bruised, scraped, and shaking with exhaustion (and fear, if he’s being honest, he’s still so, so scared despite his best efforts), are tucked into the sleeves of his over-large sweatshirt. 

Batman and Robin share a glance. Tim flicks his eyes between them. 

“Is something wrong with my house?” He asks. It’s not hard at all to make his voice shake a little. 

“Think carefully,” Batman bends down just a little to make eye contact (the cowl hides Batman’s eyes, and Tim is suddenly sure there are buttons underneath, but the key is a heavy weight around his neck and he made it out, he knows, he _knows_ that). 

“It would’ve happened once two days ago, then again around thirty minutes ago. Nothing is too small or insignificant, anything even slightly out of place is important.” 

Tim shifts his weight, furrows his brow as he pretends to think back. After a few seconds (too fast and they think he’s lying, too slow and he’s hiding something). 

“No, sir. Everything’s been normal.” Tim says. Batman makes a low humming sound. 

“What about your babysitter? Have they noticed anything? Said anything?” 

And _that_ is a problem. Tim can’t outright say no. No matter what, Batman and Robin will want to talk to the hypothetical babysitter—Tim knows interrogating witnesses is the first step to solving any mystery—and being caught in one falsehood makes the rest tumble down. He takes another deep breath, prepares hid lie. 

“Um, no. Mrs. Mac got sick with that stomach bug that’s been going around? So she’s been off the past week. She should be back Monday, though?” Tim hedges. 

It’s not entirely a lie, Mrs. Mac does check in once a week to make sure Tim isn’t dead. That’s close enough to a babysitter, right? Batman’s brow furrows a little at that, making Tim’s stomach drop. What did he say to give Batman pause? Unless Monday has already passed, if time worked differently in the Other world (reality bent and warped to the Other Mother’s will in her world, why would time be any different?). But Batman just said a minute ago that the first traces of magic only appeared two days ago, so it was almost definitely Saturday. Everything’s fine. He’s okay. He can do this. 

“Wait, so who’s been watching you?” Robin blurts, and Tim frowns. That’s what Robin is stuck on? One week is a perfectly reasonable amount of time to leave a kid alone, so why is Robin looking at him like that? 

“Uh, no one?” Tim can’t help but turn the statement into a question. “I’m not a baby, I can handle myself.” 

Tim swipes his still-damp hair out of his eyes, glances up at Batman to gauge his reaction. Batman is as expressionless as—well, as Batman. Tim didn’t know what he was expecting. He looks at Robin, who is staring down at Tim’s…hand? 

His scraped-to-hell, bruised, and bandaged hand, that Tim exposed when he’d brushed the hair from his eyes. Crap. He quickly shifts it back behind the folds of his sweatshirt, but he already knows it’s too little, too late. 

“What happened to your hand?” Robin asks, sounding…something. Intense, Tim thinks somewhere under the alarm bells ringing in his head, that’s the right word. Batman’s gaze hardens, attention focusing so much Tim can feel it like a physical weight. 

“It’s nothing,” Tim replies, even though he knows it’s far, far too late to deny it. Nausea rises in his stomach. It’ll be okay, he just has to buy himself a few moments to think. 

“Timothy.” Batman is holding out his hand and Tim stares at it blankly for a few moments before realizing what he wants. Tim can’t think of a way to refuse, so he gives Batman his hand to look over. 

Tim is trying his best to stay calm, but he doesn’t think it’s working. And with Tim’s hand in his grasp, there’s no way Batman can miss his racing heartbeat or shaking hands. He does his best to just breathe, swallows down the nausea. Hopefully, Batman just thinks he’s still overwhelmed by the presence of The Batman (Tim definitely is). That would be a normal kid’s reaction, right? Tim’s not really sure what to do, so he looks down at his hand. 

The worst of the damage is covered by band-aids, but almost the entirety of his hand is some form of scraped or bruised. He’s grateful he had decided to wrap his wrist. The scratches from the Beldam’s fingers were superficial, but the wrappings cover the hand-shaped bruise that Tim couldn’t even be able to begin to explain away. 

The silence is nearly unbearable as Batman inspects the damage. Tim thinks fast, blurts out: 

“It’s super embarrassing, I fell out of a tree earlier and got scraped up.” He stares at the ground, forces a flush to his cheeks. 

“You went out to climb a tree in this weather?” Robin asks skeptically. 

Tim takes a moment to actually look outside and—it’s sleeting. Knowing Gotham, it has been all day. The wounds are too fresh to be passed off as more than a few hours old, so he shrugs with forced casualness. 

“It was a dumb idea. I was bored.” 

Robin doesn’t look completely convinced, but Batman makes a vaguely understanding-sounding grunt under his breath. Tim figures that after raising two kids, Batman was familiar with the “I was bored” explanation for every injury under the sun. He still hasn’t let go of Tim’s hand, steps closer instead

“Did you hit your head on the way down?” He places his hands on Tim’s shoulders and logically Tim knows that he’s just moving to check Tim’s pupil size but—the Other Mother’s voice echoes as she locks him in the cold behind the mirror with nothing but the nameless ghosts of her victims to show him what he’s about to become— without thinking, Tim tears himself free from Batman’s grip. 

“Is everything okay?” Batman asks quietly, his hands held up non-threateningly and nope, no, no way, Tim is not doing this. 

He just _can’t_ face the concern in Batman’s voice, the weight of Jason’s considering stare on his shoulders, not when he is approximately two seconds away from having a full-on breakdown. He wants to sleep for as long as he can and then pretend that nothing happened and then everything can _finally_ just go back to normal. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to face Batman, to _lie_ to Batman right now. 

“No, no, sorry, I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just—I’m tired.” Tim pulls on his best company voice, cool and professional, continues; 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” A clear dismissal, and hopefully Batman and Robin don’t notice the _get out get out get out_ his brain is screaming. 

Batman is silent for a beat, and Tim almost thinks he’s gotten away with it. 

“I can’t leave you here alone and keep a good conscience.” Batman says, instead, and Tim’s brain skids to a halt. No. Tim can’t do this. 

“What? No, it’s fine! _I’m_ fine, this is—”

“I’m sure you can handle yourself just fine under normal circumstances,” Batman says, appeasing, “But whatever tripped our sensors could be dangerous.” 

Tim is already shaking his head, opens his mouth to protest, but Robin beats him to it. 

“Dude. You’re like, nine years old. And no offense, but you kinda look like sh-crap. We can’t just leave an injured kid alone in a potentially dangerous situation, you know that, right?” 

“I’m eleven,” Tim corrects coldly, ignoring Robin’s snort (Tim knows Jason is fifteen, they have no right to get all high-and-mighty about child safety). 

“First of all, I’m not _injured_ , I’m just a little scraped up. Second, you two can’t just abandon your job of _protecting the entire city of Gotham!_ And for what, exactly? You say it’s ‘dangerous,” Tim even gives the words little air quotes, “But whatever it is was so unnoticeable that it happened twice and I didn’t see a trace! Besides, Batman and Robin camping out my house would technically put me in _actual_ danger. I’m fine, I’ll be fine, I just want to go to bed!” 

Tim’s voice cracks badly on the last word, and he gives a half-hearted wince at the betrayal. 

“You know you’re shaking, right?” Robin says, the jerk. Tim shoots him a glare. 

“It’s freezing outside. You two are letting in all the cold air.” He points out, as sharply as he can. He looks to Batman, standing silently beside Robin. 

“You’re right. Whatever happened here, it didn’t seem to leave a trace. Robin and I can’t stay here either, if only because it could draw…undue attention to your house” Batman says, and Tim lets out some air in relief. Batman, at least, has common sense. 

“But I’ll also repeat what I said earlier. I cannot, in good conscience, leave you alone right now.” There goes Tim’s faith in Batman. It’s lasted for so long, but no, it’s gone now. 

“Call it a precaution,” Batman continues, “But I will feel much more at ease if there is someone to keep an eye on you, at least for tonight.” There’s a heavy pause, and Tim can do nothing but wait. Tim thinks maybe, just maybe, he can handle whoever Batman sends to babysit him—its not ideal, but it’s not Batman himself. 

Batman glances to the right, over Robin’s head. Tim frowns. There’s nothing over there, just the front lawn that extends to the trees at the edge of the Wayne property line. 

“I have a…benefactor, let’s say, who should be able to assist. You’ve met him, I’m sure. Bruce Wayne?” No. He wouldn’t—he wasn’t actually going to, right? No way. Tim’s definitely just hallucinated that last sentence. 

Batman is typing something into a panel on his wrist. Tim’s willing to bet its gibberish. It takes Tim a few moments, his mouth moving silently, but he finally gets his voice to work again. 

“Absolutely not. I can’t bother Mr. Wayne like that, it’s the middle of the night! I barely know him!” 

It’s objectively true, and no, Tim can’t do this. He absolutely cannot deal with Batman, albeit in his alter ego, for the entire night and come out intact. 

Robin is doing a poor job at hiding his smirk, probably at the look on Tim’s face. Of course Robin would be delighting in the irony. Tim’s glad someone is happy about Tim’s life crumbling around him. 

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Batman states, and Tim doesn’t know what to do. 

Batman must take his silence as an agreement, even though the so-called Greatest Detective in the World should _definitely know better_ , because he turns to leave, Robin on his heels. 

“It was nice to meet you, Timothy.” Batman says. 

“See ya, Tim!” Robin smirks, and pulls the door shut behind him. 

Tim’s legs finally give out, depositing him just a little too hard for it to be entirely purposeful. He’s screwed. He’s absolutely screwed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim: oh yeah, what are you going to do, abandon patrol? Bet.  
> Bruce, the child hoarder: Yes. Absolutely.


	4. Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Bruce have a conversation about Tim.

Jason stifles the smallest snicker as he walks down the driveway of Drake Manor. Look, he gets that this is serious, but the look of sheer dumbfounded confusion on Tim’s face had been just _perfect_. Jason is normally the one getting steamrolled by B, so sue him, he’s going to get at least a chuckle out of it. Even as he thinks it, though, it rings just a little hollow. Jason’s amusement fades quickly, thinking about Tim because, jeez, something was wrong at that house. 

Jason realizes B is already a couple of yards ahead, probably because of his freakishly long legs. Jason trots forward until he’s keeping pace. B clearly isn’t about to start talking, so Jason jumps in feet first. 

“So, what are you thinking?” Jason asks, because B always knows exactly what’s going on. Jason certainly doesn’t know what happened back there. Tim hadn’t seemed like he was outright lying, but also literally everything about him was suspicious. Even putting weird magic spikes aside, something just didn’t feel right about the whole situation. 

B slows down a bit and levels Jason with a steady look, one Jason can recognize even under the Batman cowl. It’s the _‘this is a teaching moment, time for a test’_ look, and Jason hates that look, because Jason definitely knows what he doesn’t know, but that doesn’t mean B needs to know it, yeah? 

“What do you think about Tim?” Sure enough, B asks a question instead of answering. Jason exhales through his nose. He wants answers, not to shoot blindly in the dark while B judges him. 

“Well, something’s clearly wrong with him,” Jason says, giving himself a couple of seconds to put his thoughts in order, “Normal kids don’t freak out like that, ‘specially not rich, pampered kids.” 

B will know what he’s talking about. It wasn’t exactly subtle. As soon as B moved to touch the kid’s shoulders, Tim went from looking nervous to outright terrified. It only lasted for a few seconds after B let him go, but last time Jason had seen a look like that was the last time Scarecrow got loose. 

That was weird enough all on its own, but then the kid had just…wiped the expression off. One second the kid was stuttering through an apology, looking like he was seconds from a heart attack, the next he looked as calm and cool as anything. Jason was pretty sure he had whiplash from how fast the kid changed. 

“And after, just after you let go, the way he went from panicked to calm? That wasn’t right. Something is wrong there.” 

“What else?” B asks, as they reach the Batmobile. 

“Um. That was probably the weirdest thing. But like, his thing about falling out of a tree didn’t feel right. Like, it’s not normal for some richy-rich kid to go climb a tree, at night, when it’s sleeting like h—like crazy.” Close one. Jason didn’t need Bruce getting any more ammo to run to Alfie with. 

Jason staunchly avoids B’s amused glance by hopping into the Batmobile. Sure, Jason will admit that he’s done some dumb shit when he’s bored, but Jason will also freely admit to being an adrenaline junk and on top of that spends every night doing dumb and dangerous shit. Climbing a tree when it’s dark, wet, and freezing? There’s no fun in that, that’s just miserable. 

B starts up the car, stays quiet. Waiting. Jason hates the silence. He knows that B expected him to pick up on more. And he’s positive there is more, because nothing about that conversation felt right, but he has nothing solid that he can point to. Everything he thinks is suspicious can be neatly explained away, but it’s not right and _he doesn’t know why._ It’s nothing he can fit into neat sentences, so he just lets it spill out. 

“And it’s—I don’t have anything _real_ , B, it’s just a feeling! Like, his hand looked pretty bad, but a bad enough fall will do that do you. The kid looks pretty freaking terrible, sure, but he said his nanny was sick, so maybe he caught the bug too, and it makes sense that he’d look terrible if he’s sick and no one’s looking after him!” 

And no, Jason was _not_ opening that can of worms right now, because he’s already mad and what kind of parents leaves their kid home alone for a week instead of calling literally anyone else to take care of them? Hell, what kind of parent leaves their kid with just a nanny for months on end? But that was just the tip of the iceberg because—

“You noticed he was shaking the whole time, right? I thought he was just nervous to meet a superhero or just a little freaked out, because, you know you’re intimidating, right? You freak out criminals, obviously you’re going to freak out a little kid, but _then_ he also had the guts to lecture us on keeping Gotham safe or whatever, so that doesn’t really add up, does it? Nothing adds up, but he also _really_ didn’t seem like he was lying about not seeing anything! I was watching him the whole time, and he was surprised and freaked out then _scared_ but I remember all the tells you told me to look for and he didn’t show any of them! I don’t know what else you want from me!” 

And oh, no. Jason clamps his jaw shut. He hadn’t meant to get this worked up. He scowls anyways, hunches down in the seat. Time to face the music. They’d just pulled into the Batcave at the end of his rant, so B parks the car, pulls his cowl off. Jason breathes out, braces himself for a lecture. 

“You did well, Jason,” Bruce says, and. Oh. Jason blinks. His anger pops like a balloon, though he is the one who deflates. He wasn’t expecting that. B continues, 

“All of your observations were right. Something is wrong in Drake Manor, and something is definitively wrong with Timothy. I agree with you; we just don’t know enough yet to know if they’re connected, or exactly what is wrong.” B pauses, just for a beat. 

“Your instincts are good, Jason. Trust them, especially if you don’t have all the facts.” 

Jason feels his chest puff out, just a little, at the praise. He unclips his seatbelt, starts to slide out of the car, but B’s hand on his shoulder makes him pause. 

“And Jason?” Bruce ducks his head down a little, makes direct eye contact with Jason. 

“When I ask you for your thoughts, that’s all I want. What you think, nothing more, nothing less. I’m not testing you, and it’s certainly not a condemnation. There’re no right or wrong answers. You could tell me you think the sky is green and that would be enough.” 

Jason is struck silent. He takes a couple seconds to just breathe, lets the last dregs of frustration drain out. Once he lets that settle, processes what B says, he feels a little lighter. 

“The sky is green, really? I’m gonna hold you to that the next time you ask me for my thoughts, B”. 

Jason glances back up at him and can’t help lopsided smile that tugs at his face. Bruce gives him a nod in return, then slides out of the car. 

* * *

Jason is changed faster than Bruce—who opted to waste time and take a shower—and the waiting is driving him absolutely crazy, even if it’s only been a few minutes. He fidgets on one of the benches, tries to keep his leg from bouncing. He’s itching to know what B is thinking—he’s willing to bet that B has eight or nine theories already. 

He jumps up when Bruce leaves the changing rooms, toweling off his hair. 

“So what did you notice, B?” Jason calls across the cave as soon as B is in earshot. B doesn’t answer until he’s walked the rest of the way to Jason. 

“You caught nearly all of it. On Tim’s hand though, some of the wounds looked slightly less recent. It was almost unnoticeable, so they probably weren’t more than a day or two apart,” B pauses, looks at him. There’s another beat of silence, and—

“You forgot your domino, Jason.” 

What? No he hadn’t. He’d taken it off right after he’d—

Okay, that dumb move on Jason’s part. But was that _really_ what was important right now? No, it really wasn’t. 

“You think the kid was lying?” Jason starts to peel his domino off, and—ow. B always says Jason rips it off too fast, but Jason just thinks Bruce needs to design a better adhesive. He catches the tail end of Bruce’s sigh. 

“It’s possible Tim had scraped his palms in a previous accident and then had his fall, but—” Jason knows exactly where Bruce was going with this. 

“I don’t believe in coincidences, because I’m Batman and I’m paranoid.” Jason interrupts in his best impression of the Batman growl. He’s not good at it, and it actually feels sort of like he’s gargling gravel, but he thinks it is worth it to see the light in B’s eyes die a little. 

Bruce throws the towel he had been using to dry his hair at Jason, who neatly dodges. 

“So he was definitely lying?” Jason prods. 

“I know something definitely happened over there,’ Bruce hedges. Jason rolls his eyes, because that _isn’t an answer, Bruce._

Bruce ignores Jason and continues. 

“As civilians, we can ask a few more questions, run some tests around the house while he’s asleep, see if there’s any traces of anything strange. And I wasn’t lying earlier. I can’t leave a child unsupervised when I know the house could be dangerous. Or when there’s a possibility he’s hurt or sick.” 

“And if there’s nothing wrong at all?” Jason asks, looking intensely at B. Bruce gives him a knowing look return, because apparently Bruce can read minds. 

“We already know that something is wrong. I’m planning on keeping an eye on Timothy for a little while longer, regardless of what we find.” 

Jason nods, satisfied. He had been pretty sure Bruce was just as freaked out about Timmy’s missing adults as Jason is— it just can be a little hard to tell with B. Jason’s about to jump in one of Bruce’s cars when he stops. Narrows his eyes a bit at Bruce. 

“Hold on, why aren’t you being paranoid? You should be going on about how showing up at the kids house as civilians right after patrol is a security risk!” Jason is mostly joking. Mostly. B could be a little overzealous about that sort of thing, in Jason’s personal opinion. 

“Oh yes, the child is certainly a massive security risk,” Bruce says, “And since I’m so paranoid, maybe I should leave you behind. To minimize the chance of recognition, of course.” 

“You couldn’t leave me behind if you tried,” Jason teases, “And full offense, you’re _terrible_ with kids. You need me as a buffer.” 

B’s smile is so small Jason almost misses it. 

“I suppose you’re right. We’ll have to work on that. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm lowkey dissatisfied with this one, but eh. I think it's as good as it's going to get.   
> And hey, if you're reading this, go grab a glass of water! I hope you all are having a lovely day.


	5. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Jason go to visit Tim.

Bruce steps out of the car and ruffles his hair a little bit, trying to get the proper billionaire-who-was-just-dragged-out-of-bed-but-is-happy-to-help look. Jason, all bright eyes and barely constrained energy, does not help that look, but teens are supposed to be night owls, so he’ll to let it slide. He pats through his pockets, checking that everything is in place for what’s probably the fiftieth time before he starts for the front door. Jason may tease him, but Bruce’s paranoia has saved his life too many times to count. He may be here as a civilian, but civilian doesn’t mean unprepared, and certainly doesn’t mean unarmed. 

If the energy readings start spiking again, the first step is to get Jason and Timothy out and far away. He’s already told Jason that at the first sign of trouble, it’s Jason’s job to get Tim out and to safety. It doubles as a security plan to make sure Jason actually leaves, because Jason has developed a nasty habit of ignoring Bruce when Bruce tells him to vacate a dangerous scene. Bruce isn’t taking that risk. Just in case anything goes spectacularly wrong, Bruce has Zatanna standby, she can be at Drake Manor via zeta within seven minutes, which is less than ideal, but better than nothing. 

Bruce knocks on the door to Drake Manor, briefly wondering if Timothy will actually answer it. It would complicate things if he doesn’t; proper surveillance is much more difficult from afar. Plus, at this point Bruce isn’t entirely sure he could stop Jason from breaking in. But sure enough, the door swings open, so Bruce straightens his shoulders and puts just a little bit of a Brucie smile on his face. 

“Mr. Wayne!” Tim looks only slightly less terrible than before, still pale and wide-eyed but marginally less panicked. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t think he’d actually call you over and it’s so late, I didn’t mean to wake you up, everything’s fine and I’m really—”

Bruce purposefully interrupts Tim’s babbling, strides in with Jason on his heels. 

“It’s no problem at all, Timothy! You’re right next door, after all, what kind of neighbor would I be if I couldn’t take the time to stop by?” Bruce says. 

Tim opens his mouth to reply, his eyes visibly catch on Jason and no sound come out. 

“Oh, you don’t mind I brought Jason, do you? I think you’ll know him from school.” A flash of movement in the corner of Bruce’s eye. He hopes Jason isn’t shooting Timothy finger guns. He knows the hope is in vain. 

“Um, I—I mean, I’ve seen him? A few times?” Tim visibly straightens. 

“Sorry, I—my manners are—well, would you like to sit down? The sitting room is just through here.” 

“Don’t apologize, we don’t stand on manners in the Wayne house. Bruce is bad at them.” Jason says brightly as they follow Timothy. 

Bruce is wondering whether or not this is a plan. The sitting room is where you take guests who won’t be staying long, but Bruce doesn’t know if Tim is old enough to have a full grasp on the nuances of company manners. 

“You’re absolutely right, champ!” Bruce says, “After all, I did forget to introduce myself.” 

Timothy’s eyes narrow a little in confusion, looking at a loss. Bruce responds with a beatific smile. 

“Galas don’t count for introductions, there’s too many formalities to _really_ meet anyone at all. So: I’m Bruce, this is Jason. Do you prefer Timothy, Tim, or something else?” 

Tim looks at Bruce like he just started spontaneously tapdancing a vaudeville number. Bruce ignores Jason’s muffled snickers and offers his hand to Tim, whose eyes are flicking back and forth to him and Jason. Bruce sticks his hand out for Tim to shake. 

“Um. I—just Tim, is fine?” Tim shakes his head, seems to collect himself, takes a step back. Bruce lowers his hand. 

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, I’m feeling under the weather.” Bruce frowns, because, yes, Tim looks sick. Bruce wasn’t expecting Tim to give that up so easily, not after he’d put up such a fight with Batman. It makes a little more sense when Tim continues. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be good company. You and Jason should leave before I get you guys sick.” 

“It’s Bruce, not sir.” Bruce corrects over Jason’s scoff, and steps forwards. Making sure to telegraph the motion and move slowly (he doesn’t want a repeat of earlier) he places his hand on Timothy’s forehead. Thankfully, the boy doesn’t outright flinch, though he is far more tense than he should be. His forehead is cool. 

“Hm. Well, you don’t seem to have a fever,” he says out loud, “but if you’re not feeling well, that’s all the more reason for Jason and me to stick around.” He doesn’t miss the flash of confusion that passes over Timothy’s face, like the boy had honestly been expecting them to leave. 

“Bruce and I both got spectacular immune systems, Timmy, we’ll be fine,” Jason says, “And no one actually wants to be home alone sick, doofus.” Tim looks a little lost at that, wrongfooted. 

“That’s—but—” 

“Since you’re feeling unwell, Jason and I won’t keep you up long.” Bruce interrupts, “Now, our mutual friend” Bruce raises his eyebrows, a look sure to get a laugh out of Dick or at least a smile out of Jason, but Tim just blinks blankly, “Told me that you we’re a little banged up.” 

“Oh. Uh, yeah? But, I’ve already wrapped them up, so I’m just going to go to bed, if you don’t mind?” Tim hold his hands up to show them, not even attempting to hide them this time around. That throws Bruce for a bit of a loop; after the amount of effort Tim put into hiding the wounds from Batman, Bruce had been expecting a little more resistance. 

Jason scoffs, puts up a show of stepping forward to inspect Tim’s hands. 

“Nah, kid. Bruce is going to want to check these over, he’s a control freak like that,” Jason says, “Besides, dude, no offense, but you wrapped ‘em up super sloppy. Where’s your first aid kit?” 

“I think there’s one in the kitchen?” Tim says, tentative, but he doesn’t step away from Jason. 

“Okay, then, lead the way!” 

The kitchen is a hallway and a few turns away. Jason walks right next to Tim, chattering on about Jane Austin, of all things, occasionally bumping shoulders with Tim. Bruce stays pace behind, observing. Tim doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with Jason (Bruce can relate), but by the time they reach the kitchen, a little of the tension has disappeared from his shoulders. 

Tim pulls out a first aid kit from under the sink, hands it to Bruce, and Jason jumps up to sit on the counter. Bruce shoots him a glance, because mission aside they are still guests, and Alfred trained Bruce right—but Jason, unsurprisingly, ignores him, swinging his legs back and forth. Jason pats the counter next to him for Tim to hop up, gives an overexaggerated sigh when Tim sits at a chair instead. Bruce doesn’t miss the wink Jason sends Tim after, though, nor does he miss the twitch of Tim’s lips—not a smile, but closer than anything else Bruce has seen from him. 

Bruce opens the kit to check what he’s working with and frowns. It’s a rudimentary kit—a couple sizes of bandaids, tweezers, Neosporin, an ace bandage, scissors and a penlight—but it’s practically untouched. Glancing at Tim, who’s carefully peeling the bandages off his hand, Bruce knows he should’ve made a sizeable dent in the supply. So why is it full? 

Bruce files that aside for later investigation. Tim pushes his over-long sleeves off his hands and offers them to Bruce this time, a pleasant surprise. Bruce takes a moment to take them in without the bandages. He lets his brow furrow. Tim’s fingers are…concerning. The fingertips are completely torn up, some of the nails ragged, like the boy had been clawing at something. His knuckles were bruised and scraped, too. Not in the way Bruce was familiar with, from throwing a punch too hard, but from pounding against some hard surface. 

“You really put them through the wringer, didn’t you?” Bruce says, forcing his voice to be light. He looks over the scrapes and scratches in case there’s dirt or debris stuck in them, but it seems like Tim did an excellent job of cleaning them. Bruce starts spreading Neosporin on them, just to be safe. 

“Yessir,” Tim responds promptly, “I was climbing a tree earlier and slipped. Ripped them up trying to catch my balance, then scraped them up more when I hit the ground.” Tim says it easily, without a trace of hesitation this time. Interesting. 

Bruce hums an acknowledgement. 

“Bruce, not sir.” Bruce says a beat later. It’s a clever story, one that would probably be believable if the damage was just a little less severe. 

“Did you hit your head on the way down?” He asks, because he hadn’t been able to actually check last time around. 

Tim shakes his head. 

“I’m going to check your head, then your pupils, just in case, okay?” Tim nods, and Bruce reaches out slowly to check Tim’s head for any lumps or cuts. Tim doesn’t flinch away, and Bruce doesn’t find anything. Bruce hums under his breath and digs the penlight from the bag. 

“What were you doing climbing a tree in this weather?” Jason asks, filling the silence as Bruce checks Tim’s eyes. 

Tim’s pupils respond properly to the light. When he draws it away, they are even sizes, both of which puts Bruce at ease. His eyes are a little glazed, though, and his hands are still trembling. It’s not the full-body shaking from earlier, which is better than nothing. Still, if Bruce hadn’t just checked his temperature, he would be sure Tim had a fever. 

“Sleet freezes in interesting patterns on bark,” Tim shrugs, scratches at his right wrist—which is wrapped in an ace bandage. Interesting. “I wanted to check and see if there was anything worth getting a photo of.” 

Bruce pulls the bandages closer and gets to work expertly rewrapping Tim’s left hand. 

“So,” Jason says, drawing out the word, “I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure I’ve seen you at school a few times before, which is weird, because I’m _also_ pretty sure you’re in like, third grade.” 

“I’m eleven,” Tim stresses, sounding more animated than he had since they’d arrived. Bruce hides a smile, because Jason _definitely_ knew that would rile Tim up. 

“Oh, okay, sorry then. You should be in sixth grade, which is _still_ not high school,” Jason shoots back, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged on the table. 

“I skipped a few grades. I’m a freshman.” 

“Ooh, we got a little genius on our hands here, B!” Jason says, genuine, but Tim hunches his shoulders and looks away, fingers twitching in Bruce’s grip. Jason looks put out for a split second, but bounces right back. 

“That means you have Mr. Tashner for trig, right? I _hated_ that guy.” And just like that, Tim perks back up. Bruce gives an inward sigh—he’d heard a lot about Tashner when Jason had him last year. To be fair, though, there is no bonding technique better than mutual hatred of a teacher. Bruce learned that from the Young Justice team. 

“He doesn’t even teach anything! I don’t know a single thing about trig! All I’ve learned is that he hates his ex-wife and wants to live in _France_.” Tim says, disgruntled. 

“And the barking thing? He still does that, right?” Jason asks gleefully. 

“Yes! What’s up with that?” Tim waves the hand that Bruce isn’t working on wildly, “Or—he does this thing where he sneaks into the back of other classrooms and screams just to startle everyone? That’s not okay! Why is he allowed to teach?” 

Jason is laughing, already launching into one of his wilder Mr. Tashner stories, one Bruce remembers vividly. 

Bruce sticks the last band-aid onto Tim’s right hand. He holds Tim’s it steady, studies the ace bandage around Tim’s right wrist. It’s clumsily wrapped—Bruce assumes Tim had used his non-dominant hand—and probably one sharp movement away from complete falling off. Bruce plucks at the end, and it starts to unravel. 

Tim immediately yanks his arm back so fast it actually startles Bruce, who has to stop himself from grabbing Tim’s arm back on pure reflex. He only catches a glimpse of red bruising before Tim tucks his arm behind him. Jason cuts himself off, and Bruce puts his hands up, non-threatening. 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Bruce says, as nonchalantly as he can, “I was just about to check your wrist,” 

And—interesting. Tim has lost all color in his face; he’s so tense Bruce half-thinks he might bolt. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“My wrist is fine, thank you.” Tim says coolly, shaking his head. His voice is completely at odds with his body language, which just _screams_ panic. Jason slides off the counter, eyes intent on Tim. Bruce hesitates for a moment, decides to push. 

“It looked pretty bruised there, kiddo. I’m worried about a sprain or a break, if you’d just let me check it out?” 

Tim shakes his head, but he’s chewing on his lip. He’s considering something. The boy looks between Bruce and Jason and back again, frowns. He flicks his eyes to the door—gauging. Before Bruce has to decide what he’ll do if the boy bolts, Tim’s shoulders slump. 

Slowly, Tim brings his arm back around. He pointedly doesn’t look at Bruce, staring determinedly at the floor. Bruce feels a twinge of guilt, because Tim clearly doesn’t want to show him, but Bruce _can’t turn a blind eye to this. He looks down at Tim’s wrist—_

And stops at the clear handprint on wrapped around Tim’s wrist, each finger stamped into the boy’s skin. It’s recent, deep red with blue darkening the edges. Just as bad are the scratches carved into the boy’s skin, like whoever did this dug their nails in so hard it _bled_. Jason inhales sharply, loud in the silence of the room. 

Bruce gently reaches out, manually rotates Tim’s wrist to make sure it’s not sprained or broken. He can see Jason in the corner of his eye, looking like he’s about to either vibrate out of his skin or explode. Bruce makes a subtle motion with his hand, _stand down_. Jason visibly takes a deep breath, then a step back, which is close enough. 

Bruce, likewise, forces himself to take one breath, then another. When he’s certain his voice will come out calm, he crouches down in front of Tim. It takes a long moment, but eventually Tim makes eye contact. Tim is distinctly green now, his hands shaking, and Bruce has to forcibly tamp down his rage at _whoever did this_. 

“Tim, buddy, what _happened_?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim’s going to have fun talking himself out of this one…  
> Mr. Tashner is based on a teacher I had back in high school. The joys of public school, I guess? Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this, and I hope you have a lovely day/night!


	6. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim tries to talk his way out. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively: Bruce is Trying, and Tim makes aggressively poor life choices.

Bruce is crouched right in front of Tim, still holding his hands like they’re fragile—which is dumb, because Tim won't break —but Bruce looks so _concerned_ and—Tim can’t keep doing this. He can’t. He’s so tired. He can’t even bring himself to be panicked, not really. Sure, the underlying hum of terror is there, in the back of his head, it’s just muted enough that all he feels is his stomach steadily sinking and nausea rising in the back of his throat. But Tim has to do this. 

He can’t hold Bruce’s eyes, not like this. Tim looks at the floor instead. Shakes his head to buy himself a moment to think. It’s hard. He’s exhausted, sick of everything. 

The handprint is too distinct to pass off as anything else. It’s too large to pass off as a kid at school, even if Tim was willing to throw one of his classmates under the bus. Blaming a teacher would be the most believable response, but Tim disregards the thought as soon as it appears. He can’t just ruin someone’s life like that. And there’s just…not a lot of other people in his life who he could blame, even if he wanted to. 

Tim opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head again. 

“Was it Mrs. Mac?” Jason says, too loud in the silence of the kitchen, and—what? What did Mrs. Mac have to do with any of this? Tim shoots his gaze up to meet Jason’s angry stare and—

“What? No!” Why would Jason even think of Mrs. Mac? Scratch that, how did Jason even know who Mrs. Mac was? He—oh. Tim had told Robin Mrs. Mac was the nanny. Jason wasn’t supposed to know that, unless he claims Batman told them, which—doesn’t matter right now, because Tim _can’t_ get Mrs. Mac into trouble, he can’t. 

“She’s sick. She hasn’t even been here the last week?” 

“Well then, who the _fuck_ did that?” Jason hisses and Tim doesn’t even have the energy to actually flinch, just twitches slightly. He wants to snap back, to prove to Jason that it wasn’t her, go come up with some clever lie that will get him out of this, but his mind is blank as his stomach rolls uncomfortably. 

“Jason,” Mr. Wayne says, his eyes still fixed on Tim’s face, “Take five.” 

And oh, that is _Batman’s_ voice giving the order, impossible to argue with. Jason makes a low, angry noise in the back of his throat, but stomps loudly out of the kitchen. 

Tim watches Jason leave, and wants to feel bad because he’s clearly made Jason upset, but right now he just—can’t. Some part of him is aware that the silence is growing, that he _really_ needs to come up with an excuse right now, but more of him is just—done. He’s been running so long on bursts of adrenaline that he has nothing left. 

“Tim?” Mr. Wayne softly squeezes his hands, somehow manages to do it without making any of Tim’s scrapes or bruises hurt. 

Tim shuts his eyes. Shakes his head again, because what else can he do? Mr. Wayne shifts slightly, but continues to gently hold Tim’s hands, like Tim is something _precious_. 

“Tim, buddy. I know you’re scared, and you might not even be able to talk about it right now. But, I _promise_ ,” Mr. Wayne says, equal parts gentle and fierce, “That when you are, I will be here and I will listen. And _no matter what_ , I will believe you, then I will do everything and anything in my power to fix it.” 

It’s a promise made with the strength of Batman, and Tim—Tim _believes_ him. And Tim wants nothing more than to open his mouth, spill out the whole terrifying story, and have Batman tell him that everything is okay. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more. He’s a split second from opening his mouth, from spilling his secrets, when his stomach twists and lurches and—

Tim tears his hands out of Mr. Wayne’s and runs to the sink. He throws up, and it _hurts_. It feels like he’s shredding his throat with every heave. But even as the pain brings tears to his eyes, it clears his head. What had he been thinking? 

He could tell Batman everything, and he really, _really_ , wants to. But there was nothing for Batman to fix because Tim saved _himself_ and trapped the Beldam. Spilling his guts to Batman would do nothing but hurt Tim’s family, because the Beldam only traps the unhappy and the wretched and Mr. Wayne is already suspicious about Tim’s home life. Any more digging and it all falls apart. It makes Tim’s chest ache, but he knows what has to be done. Tim spits one last time into the sink, opens his eyes, and—

Whatever he had thrown up wasn’t food, grey and slimy and _wrong_. The sheer panic threatens to choke Tim, but no. Tim shoves all of his screaming thoughts, the panic and the hurt and the want back into a little box somewhere in his chest. Takes a breath. Pretends the tears dripping down his nose are reflex only, turns on the sink, washes the evidence—because that’s all it was, incriminating evidence, and he’ll have time to freak out about it _later_ —down the drain. He turns back around. 

M. Wayne is halfway to him, looks uncharacteristically uncertain. Tim is viciously grateful for that, because if Mr. Wayne touches him right now, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop from bursting into tears. He pries his mouth open. 

“I’m going to go to bed.” The words catch and burn in Tim’s throat, but he forces them out anyways, “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Wayne, but everything is fine.” 

Mr. Wayne looks like he’s about to say something, reaches out, but Tim gives a hard flinch before he can stop himself. Tim uses the second that Mr. Wayne hesitates to duck around him and bolt out the side door of the kitchen. Mr. Wayne could’ve stopped him if he really wanted to, Tim knows, but he’s not questioning it right now. His footsteps echo in the silence as Tim leaves the kitchen behind, takes the long way around to make sure he doesn’t run into Jason. 

Tim finally makes it to his room, shuts the door behind him. He leans his weight against it, knocks his head against the door with a solid _thunk_ , and focuses on swallowing down the lump in his throat. He’s messed everything up, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to fix it. 

The taste in his mouth as he swallows is putrid and— _god,_ what had he eaten? The Other world was all tricks and distorted reality, he _should’ve known_ the food would be wrong too—but no, Tim was not thinking about that right now. Later. (Never). He rushes to the bathroom, rinses his mouth and spits. It’s not enough, so he pulls out his toothpaste. 

Tim brushes his teeth, pointedly doesn’t look in the mirror, and lets the overpowering taste of mint fills his mouth. He makes sure to get every last corner of his mouth, spits out the toothpaste, then does it all again. 

By the time he finally done, he’s sagged against the counter, without the energy to head back into his room. He’s exhausted, but he has to work out how he’s getting out of this. He wants the Bats to leave him alone, he wants to sleep for the next century, he wants his parents to be home so he can get the vision of the Other Mother and Other Father out of his head, he wants curl up and cry at the soft look on Mr. Wayne’s face when he had told Tim that he would fix everything. 

Tim slams down his toothbrush, shakes the _stupid_ thoughts out of his head, and stalks back into his room, making sure to lock the door behind him. 

Tim tries to think logically, work through his largest problems one at a time. The Bats are openly suspicious, even in their civilian identities. He needs to solve that first. He can explain away everything but the bruises on his wrist. Maybe he could claim he got mugged? No, draws more attention to Mrs. Mac, the non-existent nanny, and the general lack of adults. He can’t blame bullies because yeah, they suck, but they don’t deserve getting Batman sicced on them. He doesn’t know what to do, because—wait. 

Batman and originally came here to check out the energy readings caused by the door opening. Tim could claim the bruises just appeared, out of the blue, at the same times as the energy spikes. He could show them the handprint on his ankle and say it was from the first spike, and if he cries and gives a convincing enough performance of being scared—tells them that he’d thought they wouldn’t believe him and he’s _sorry_ he lied— he might be able to convince them. Batman and Robin would poke around for a bit to try and find the source of the magic, but with door locked, there’ll be nothing. It’ll just be another strange phenomenon for Batman to add to the list and eventually forget about. Tim will probably have to spend even more time with the Waynes until they are convinced the house is safe, though. 

Tim nods to himself. It’s not perfect, but it could work. 

Problem two: the nanny who doesn’t exist. Tim isn’t dumb enough to think Batman won’t look into Mrs. Mac. With Batman’s tech, he’ll know in minutes that Tim lied and hasn’t had anyone watching him. Judging from his and Jason’s previous reactions, they might overreact, even go so far as to take it to court. They’d fail, obviously, because Tim _isn’t_ a neglect case. Sure, the fact that his parents aren’t around a whole lot is less than ideal, but Tim has always been provided with everything he needs. The CPS is busy with kids facing _actually bad_ situations. 

Still, being alone for a couple months could technically be enough to start an investigation, especially if Mr. Wayne is the one pushing it. That would be very, very bad, because the press associated with an investigation would impact his parents horribly, and Tim _can’t_ do that to them. 

Tim starts to pace as he thinks. It feels like his feet are as heavy as concrete, but no, he’s not laying down until he’s worked this out. He mulls it over for a few seconds before it hits him. 

Someone would have to bring the charges against his family. The Waynes may try, but they need _legally_ obtained proof that no one has been watching him, and none of the records Batman digs up will be admissible in court. Which gives Tim time to modify the records before the court requests them. So, as long as he managed to obtain a babysitter by the end of the week—he could get his parents to hire a new one easily enough, even if they’d be upset about the cost. He’ll need to fake payment records, maybe throw in some fake Skype calls just to be safe. 

He’ll have to be careful, though, because Batman’s attention will still be on him, even if he pulls this off. Especially if he manages to pull it off, if Tim’s being honest with himself. 

Tim thinks about it for a bit, shrugs that off. It’s a non-issue. He’ll lay low for a few weeks, simple as that. Mr. Wayne will lose interest soon enough—Batman has plenty of bigger things to worry about. Tim can dig himself out of this mess. Everything will be fine, he just has to wait it out. 

Tim starts to get himself to bed, stops halfway there. He should email his parents and start modifying the records now. The sooner he does that, the easier everything will be. Or. He could go to bed. Everything needs to be perfect, if he wants to pull this off. He can’t do perfect when he’s dead on his feet. It can wait a few hours. Tim makes it to his bed, pauses. Checks to make sure the key is still around his neck. It is. 

Then, _finally_ , Tim collapses into his bed. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Tim is...trying his best.  
> The food thing is something that bugs me every time I watch Coraline, because where does it come from?! In the movie, at least, all of the living things Beldam creates turn into sand (except for the Sisters, they turn to stone-toffee weirdness) so, yeah, I don’t think that was real food.  
> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Bruce start piecing together what actually happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA Jason starts on his journey to earn the “T” rating.

Jason paces one of Drake Manor’s empty fucking rooms, seething silently. Someone had hurt Tim, clear as day—had grabbed his wrist so hard each individual finger was stamped into pale skin, leaving gouges where nails dug in and tore flesh. He’s lucky his wrist hadn’t snapped like a twig—the kid is so tiny Jason doesn’t think it would take much force. And then the kid had the gall to sit there, looking picture-perfect confused when they asked him what had happened. Jason can’t fucking deal with it, not now. He wants to storm back in there, physically shake Tim until he gave them a straight answer so Jason could do something instead of pace. 

Jason throws himself onto a nearby chair. It’s as uncomfortable as everything else in this godforsaken house. Tim is terrified. Jason’s known that pretty much since Tim first opened his door, but it was even more obvious after Jason got him to chill out a bit. After seeing Tim relaxed, it was flat out jarring to see him panicking now that Jason knows it isn’t actually the kid’s default state. 

So what _happened_? Two minutes ago, he would’ve said that if it wasn’t the nanny, he’d eat his cape. Now that his head is a little clearer, he’s glad he didn’t make that bet. Maybe. Tim looked genuinely confused when Jason accused her, but Jason is getting the sense Tim is a better liar than he’d thought. 

Footsteps echo loudly, even from behind the closed door, someone small and light running from the kitchen. Damnit, the kid is making a break for it! Jason slams open the kitchen door, but Tim is already gone. B is just standing there, staring at the door Tim probably left through like an idiot. Jason charges towards the door, because Tim isn’t getting out of this, only to be brought up short. B has a grip on the back of his shirt. 

“Let him go, Jason.” Jason twists, but B’s grip is ironclad. 

“Like hell, B!” Jason bats at Bruce’s hand, “Did he even tell you what happened?” 

The silence tells Jason everything he needs to know. He considers just slipping out of his shirt to get to Tim before the kid locks himself in somewhere. As soon as Jason thinks it, Bruce spins him around and shifts his grip to Jason’s shoulders, contributing more evidence for Jason’s running theory that B actually reads minds. 

“You’re not going to get anything out of him right now,” Bruce says, “Give him a little time.” 

“What, time for him to come up with more lies?” Jason spits. 

Bruce sighs. 

“Sit down, Jason,” He says in that long-suffering tone that makes Jason want to strangle him, just a little. Jason shakes B’s hands off, leans against the counter. 

“Tim needs time, Jason,” Bruce repeats. “Whatever happened to Tim, it terrified him. I don’t think he even _can_ talk about it. He came close, just now, before he ran. He wanted to tell me, that much was obvious. If we chase him down right and force it out of him, he’ll just shut down further. He needs to trust us, Jason.” 

And damn him, Bruce was right. Jason knew that. There had been times, when he had first came to Wayne Manor, that if Bruce had pushed him any further he probably would’ve left and never came back. But he had told Bruce, eventually. It was probably the most frustrating and impressive thing about the guy; for all his emotional constipation, he always knows when to push and when to hold back. Jason forces himself to unclench his jaw, actually takes a seat. 

“Fine. So what now, B? We just leave him alone and hope for the best?” Jason demands. Bruce gives him a Look. 

“Right now, I am going to look into the nanny.” 

Jason frowns, because that definitely wasn’t where he thought this was going. 

“You actually think she did that to Tim?” 

“No,” Bruce starts, and _yes_ , Jason knew that he had been on to something there, 

“But he is definitely lying about something _involving_ the nanny. We just have to figure out what.” Bruce is already reaching for the satchel he keeps his laptop in. 

Jason rolls his eyes. He knows what B is doing. Start with the small things. Tug on the threads enough, and the whole mystery unravels. But digging through backgrounds and financial records was hardly a two-person job, and Jason needs to do something, anything, or he’s going to explode. He pushes forwards, 

“You mean _you_ are going to figure out what. Do you think the nanny did something to cause the magic spikes?” 

Bruce gives a low grunt, already absorbed in his work. Typical. Jason kicks his feet back and forth a few times. Looks around the kitchen. He still wants to crawl out of his skin, but less in the I’m-going-to-punch-something way, and more in the I’m-frustrated-because-something’s-wrong-and-I-can’t-do-anything-to-fix-it way. He gets up, paces. Sits back down. Gets back up. An idea occurs to him. 

“Can I look around the house?” He asks. There was nothing obviously wrong when they looked in from the outside, but Jason’s willing to bet he can find more threads to pull if he looks around for a little. Drake Manor just feels wrong. B knows it too, but it’s a fifty-fifty shot that Bruce will let him wander around on his own, especially since they’re in civvies. 

Jason sees B scanning him up and down, knows B is cataloging his rattling energy, hopes B knows that Jason needs to distract himself right now or he’ll actually lose his mind. 

“Put your comms in and check in every fifteen minutes,” B says, finally, and Jason has to stop himself from punching the air as Bruce continues. 

“And if you see anything even remotely off, call me immediately, leave the room, and wait. I don’t need to remind you that it is not safe in this house.” 

Classic B. He’s been anal about this all night. Jason’s not an idiot, he knows not to mess with a place that is spitting out magic. Jason nods, leaves. 

* * *

An hour later, Jason has cooled down a bit. He’s made it through three hallways and eighteen rooms, and with every step he takes, he’s getting a little more creeped out. The manor feels like a mausoleum—white, empty, and cold. He hasn’t found a single personal item yet, and there’s nothing even slightly out of place anywhere Jason looks. Hell, three-quarters of the rooms have the furniture wrapped in sheets, like you see in old movies with abandoned houses. Each footstep echoes, seems to magnify the silence instead of fill it. Jason doesn’t know how Tim stands it in here. Sure, Wayne Manor is like, ridiculously humungous for a place that only has three people in it, but it never feels this empty. He wonders how Tim stands it. 

Eventually, Jason finds a door that, if he remembers the floorplan B gave him correctly, leads to the east wing. He tries it, and it’s locked, even though there’s light spilling out from behind it. Dropping to the floor, he peeks underneath the door, but can’t really see anything. For a split second he wonders, is something B would want him to call in for? 

…Nah. It’s probably fine. He pulls out his lock picking set from its place in his boots, a habit he’s had from long before he met B. It takes him less than a minute to pop it, and he pushes the door open to reveal—

Nothing. Just another hollow room. There’re two other doors, though, both shut. Jason tests them both; one leads to a near-identical room, and the other is locked. Jason chooses the locked door, because normally a lock means that there’s something interesting behind it. Frankly, Jason just wants to see a room that doesn’t look like it came out of those sad-looking minimalistic magazine homes. 

He’s disappointed when he opens the door. Not completely, though, because there’s another locked door with light spilling out. Jason gets it open, finds another empty room and another locked door. Four rooms later, he can’t quite decide whether he’s stumbled onto something or not. Every room has the lights on and precisely one locked door behind it, but none of them have anything interesting in them. Jason is pretty sure he’s nearing the far corner of the manor, at this point. What’s the point of locking the doors if there isn’t anything to hide? 

He unlocks another door, prepared for another of the same, and huh. The lights are off. There’s a window, though, and the sleet storm must’ve cleared up, because the full moon fills the room with half-light, and—there are dark stains on the carpet. Blood. Not a whole lot, but enough. That’s probably what B meant when he said to call in for anything weird, right? Yeah. Jason steps out of the room, shuts the door behind him. Turns on his comms. 

“Hey, B? So when you said ‘anything remotely weird’—”

“On my way. What’s the location?” B cuts him off, which is rude. Jason thinks for a second. 

“Farthest edge of the east wing. Just follow the rooms with the lights on. Relax, B, there’s no immediate threat.” Jason leans against the wall to wait. 

B is there is less than three minutes. 

“Report.” Is all B says when he sees him, which-does Jason need to have a conversation with him on etiquette? Jeez. 

“So, starting at the entrance to the east wing, there was like, a path, of locked doors with their lights on, so—”

“Why didn’t you call me.” B interrupts, _again_ , his voice flat. 

“What, B? There’s locked doors at our place, too, it’s not that weird.” 

Bruce pinches at the bridge of his nose, like Jason is giving him a headache, which, again, rude. He opens his mouth, but Jason cuts him off, 

“Anyways! I unlocked this door,” Jason slaps it with his hand, “And there was some blood on the carpet, so I noped out of there and called you.” 

“How much blood?” 

“Eh, not a lot. Like, a couple of small-ish blotches?” Jason shrugs, “I didn’t get a great look. Like, minor injury amount, not human-sacrifice amount. And no sign of a disturbance, it looked normal. Aside from the blood.” 

B nods, pulls the little energy reader thing out of his pocket. It’s silent, obviously. Jason doesn’t even know why B pulled it out. B cautiously opens the door and flicks on the light, Jason on his heels. 

Looking at it again, it’s not _really_ that alarming? The stained sections were mostly dirt and cobwebs ground into the carpet. There is blood though, mixed in there. There are a few distinct almost-handprints, like someone appropriately filthy with bloody hands crawled around for a few—oh. Bloody hands. That’s Tim. Jason’s stomach drops. 

B has already swept through the room, is looking at the windowsill. Jason follows, and there are smudges on the windowsill and on the glass itself, like someone opened it. Had Tim come in through the window? Jason looks to B, who is still scanning the room, face tight, before walking over to a wardrobe and shoving it aside. 

There’s a tiny door behind it, maybe two and a half feet high. There’s no doorknob, but there is a keyhole. That, Jason knows what to do with. He pulls out his lockpick again, drops down to have a try at it. 

“Stop.” B says, in his _this is an order_ voice. Jason freezes. Glances up at Bruce, who is looking at the still-silent magic detector thingamajig. It’s silent. 

“That’s an exterior wall. There was nothing on the outside. It doesn’t go anywhere.” 

“So? It’s still fucking weird?” Jason says, because it was B who had taught him to never leave a stone unturned. 

“Don’t open doors you can’t close.” 

But Jason could close it, though, the same way he’d open it. With the lockpicks. It would just take, like, thirty seconds—seconds he wouldn’t have if something went wrong. 

Why is B always right? It’s annoying. Jason stows the lockpick away, goes to stand by the window. He waits as B paces through the room one more time. 

“There’s nothing on the outer sill,” B starts, “And nothing outside the room. So whatever happened, happened in here. Probably less than five hours ago.” 

Jason checks his watch. It’s nearing two o’clock in the morning, and the last energy spike happened just before eleven, well within the time frame. 

So whatever happened to Tim definitely involved the magic spikes. Jason can’t help but be a little surprised—yes, he knows there are no such things as coincidences in Gotham, but that was literally the one thing Jason had been absolutely positive Tim hadn’t lied about when they first talked to him. Putting that aside, though, what the hell could’ve happened? 

B seems to have decided he’s found everything in the room, because he shoos Jason out in front of him, locks the door behind him when they leave. They silently move back through the house, relocking the doors as they go. It can’t hurt to be too careful, Jason supposes. In the silence, he mulls over the information that he has. 

Jason’s sure whatever happened to Tim has something to do with the door. It was the only thing different about that room. It could be keeping something trapped—maybe Tim unlocked it and something came through, but then where did it go? Tim’s like, _maybe_ sixty pounds soaking wet (if Jason is feeling generous), there’s no way the kid could fight off anything larger than a cat, much less force it back through the door. Unless Tim hadn’t been able to shut whatever it was back in—but no kid would stay alone in a house if some creature was stalking the halls. And definitely wouldn’t have done his best to kick out Batman and Robin. 

Tim could’ve opened the door and got hit by some kind of ward, though—a brief flareup of protective magic. That could’ve caused the injuries to his hands, specifically. But then why were there two spikes of energy? No one would open a biting door twice. So then what? Jason tries to come up with more theories, but one question keeps circling around his mind. 

“B. Why did Tim lie?” Bruce looks at Jason, motions for him to elaborate (because Tim has lied about a lot, that’s fair) 

“Like, I get why he’d lie to us in civvies—no one believes kids when they say something’s magic. But when Batman and Robin came knocking on his door, specifically asking if he’d seen anything weird, he lied. Why?” 

B hums as they approach the kitchen again. 

“I have a few theories. If Tim thinks whatever happened was his fault—for example, if he had been warned not to open the door—he could be worried about getting in trouble.” 

Jason opens his mouth, because it doesn’t matter if Tim broke a rule or something because it wouldn’t have been malicious and Tim got _hurt_ , but Bruce raises his hand. 

“I’m not saying he _would_ get in trouble, just that he might think he will. Regardless, I don’t actually think that’s the cause. Regardless of fear of punishment, I don’t think a child would want to be left entirely alone after a clearly traumatic ordeal.” 

"So then what is it?” Jason asks, hopping back up onto the kitchen counter. 

“If Tim is trying to hide something else, he may be lying to try to keep us from looking too closely” B says. 

“Wait, what? What would he be hiding that’s worse than whatever did that to him?” 

Bruce sighs, sits down on a barstool. 

“I researched Mrs. Mac. The nanny,” He says, which doesn’t answer Jason’s question. 

“And?” 

“And she’s not the nanny. She’s the head housekeeper.” 

Jason doesn’t get it. 

“So who’s the nanny?” He asks, nonplussed. 

“I looked through the Drake’s finances. The last payment for a nanny or babysitter was nearly three years ago.” 

Everything screeches to a halt. 

That doesn’t—no. That can’t be right, because that would mean that Tim’s been alone in this graveyard of a house since he was eight, and that’s not—his parents are rich, like it’s not like they can’t afford it. They have no excuse, but they’re in another _goddamned_ country and Tim is here alone, and Jason _doesn’t know what to do_ because this? This isn’t something he can fix. This isn’t a neglectful nanny that they can get fired, these are Tim’s _parents_. Jason can’t _fix_ them, he can’t make this okay, because it’s _not_ and—

“Jason.” B is right in front of him, pulls Jason into a hug Jason didn’t even know he needed. Jason melts just a little bit into the hold, leans into B. 

“What do we do, B?” Jason asks, quiet. He can feel Bruce’s sigh from where his head is pressed against Bruce’s chest. 

“Tonight? Nothing.” Jason pulls back because—no, they can’t—

“Remember what I said earlier, Jason. Tim needs time, at the very least just to get some sleep.” B takes a step back, looking pained. 

“There’s no good way to go about this, not without admitting we dug into their finances. My best plan so far is that I’ll call Tim’s bluff and ask him call his nanny so I can talk to her tomorrow morning. With that, at least, we can offer to watch Tim until his parents get back. After that, there shouldn’t be any reason for Tim to keep whatever happened a secret. He’ll be out of this house, and we can deal with whatever happens.” 

Bruce’s face tightens slightly. 

“And when the Drakes make it back to Gotham, we will be filing legal case for neglect against them. If Tim wishes, he can stay with us while the proceedings take place, and after if he so choses.” 

Jason breathes out. Okay. That could work. B gives him the slightest smile, and nudges Jason off the counter. 

“But for tonight, we stick to the original plan. We stay overnight, and if the alarm goes off, you get Tim out of the house as fast as possible. You should take the sitting room couch, to make sure Tim doesn’t sneak out.” 

Jason narrows his eyes at Bruce, because he has the sneaking suspicion that Bruce just wants to make sure Jason is out of the way if trouble starts, which is dumb. But Jason can’t argue, because Tim is the priority here. 

“And where will you be?” Jason asks. 

“I’ll set up shop in here. I have research to do. Now shoo.” 

Jason wrinkles his nose at Bruce, but heads towards the sitting room anyways. He’s definitely going to need sleep if he’ll be managing Tim and whatever the hell else is going on in this house tomorrow. 

He flops on the most comfortable looking couch in the sitting room, and it’s slightly more comfortable than a rock, which is fantastic. Jason rolls over, stares at the ceiling, and waits for sleep to come. 

* * *

A few rooms away, Tim shoots awake, grabbing at the key around his neck. The voices of the children (they had their eyes back, now, but their faces still blurred and they still didn’t know their names) rang in his eyes, warning of terrible danger and the Beldam. She’s not going to stop until she has the key, but even then, Tim isn’t sure because as long as the door is there, there’s a possibility she can get through. He has to get rid of the key, destroy the door somehow. It won’t be over until he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, swiping at my brain with a broom: gosh darn it, do the word thing! Make the words go!  
> My singular brain cell, wheezing: please, im begging u, i can’t


	8. Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's plan goes astray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA: Jason and Tim have a perfectly splendid time and _absolutely_ nothing goes wrong.

Jason stares at the ceiling. It’s nearing the time he normally gets back from patrol and collapses into his bed, but he already knows there’s no chance of sleeping tonight. He’s wired. Staying in an unfamiliar place some unknown power attacking kids will do that to you, he supposes, To be honest, Jason’s slept in far worse places, under far more dangerous circumstances. It’s a skill of his. He should be able to put that on a resume. 

No, what’s keeping him up is his own dumb brain, his anger still simmering below the surface. Tim’s been here, all alone, _right next door,_ for years, and they knew nothing about it. And then that idiot kid had the _gall_ to lie to them to protect those assholes, even though he was scared and hurt and still in danger, and doesn’t that just—Tim’s parents don’t _deserve_ that kind of unwavering devotion. They deserve a special place in hell, and Jason isn’t going to leave Tim alone until Tim sees that, too. 

Regardless, there’s nothing he can do but wait until morning. B has it under control, they have a plan and knowing B, at least five contingencies. He rolls over, stares at the wall for a change of pace. He’s kind of hungry; maybe Bruce will let him raid the Drake’s fridge. But is he actually hungry, or—a whisper of fabric scuffs the floor behind him. 

Jason immediately tenses. It’s not B—Bruce wouldn’t even make a sound, if he was creeping around. Ever so slowly, he shifts his hand to the emergency tucked into his sleeve. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a shadow moves past the couch, and Jason is prepared to launch himself at whatever it is when the shadow steps into a patch of moonlight and— 

That’s Timothy fucking Drake creeping around his own house like a ghost. He clearly hasn’t noticed Jason yet, but he’s definitely being careful not to be heard. Jason’s ready to give the kid the benefit of the doubt, thinks maybe the kid was on the same wavelength that Jason was on earlier and going for a snack from the kitchen, but then he notices Tim is wearing sneakers. And heading straight towards the front door. Was the kid trying to run for it? 

Nah, he’s doesn’t have a bag, and he’s not even wearing a coat, just the hoodie from earlier. He’s gripping something around his neck, like he’s afraid he’s going to lose it. A necklace? Jason is ready to call the kid out, because where the hell does Tim think he’s going, it’s like thirty degrees outside! But he thinks on what B said—the kid needs space. Jason’s taken enough of his own midnight walks to understand that. 

Besides, Jason is pretty sure that if he jumps out at Tim right now, the kid will _actually_ bolt for the hills, considering how skittish he was earlier. Maybe he can just follow Tim, make sure the kid stays safe. Stretch his own legs and maybe take some time to think. Besides, the kid is probably safer outside the house than in it right now. 

Tim slips out the front door, shuts it behind him with barely a click. Jason immediately sits up, pulls out his phone. Texts B a short message: _Tim left the house. Following. Comms on._ B’s awake in the kitchen, so Jason knows he’ll read it immediately. If Bruce has a problem with it, he’ll just tell Jason no. Jason might even listen. 

He’s halfway to the front door when a familiar alarm from the kitchen makes him jump. It lasts even shorter than the last time, less than a second. Jason’s off the couch and halfway across the room before he can even register that it’s stopped. B charges through from the kitchen, holding the magic thingamajig. It’s not actually silent, like Jason had thought, but letting out a consistent low-level whine. 

“Find Tim and get him to Wayne Manor, tell him it’s a gas leak.” B says, already turning away. 

Jason opens his mouth to protest, because that means leaving B alone with whatever is causing this, but Bruce cuts him off. 

“Jay, it’s low level right now. This is a precaution, not an emergency. I’ll call Zatanna if it spikes again. Just be careful and find Tim.” 

Jason wants to argue, but he can’t leave Tim alone, and every second he argues with B is another that Tim gets farther away. He gives a sharp nod. B turns to leave, and Jason runs out the front door. 

The sky has completely cleared from the earlier sleet, the full moon illuminating the grounds in a flat, eerie light. The front grounds are flat, sloping lawns, and Tim is nowhere in sight. But if Jason remembers correctly from yesterday’s stakeout, _this_ path is the one that leads around back. Jason charges around, whips around the corner of the house just in time to see Tim vanish into the tree line behind the property. 

The kid is booking it, why the hell is he running so fast? Unless Tim somehow knew the magic was going to spike, is trying to get out. Jason curses, pushing himself to run faster. By the time he reaches the tree line, Tim is out of sight. Holy hell, that kid can _move_ , despite his legs being like, a full six inches shorter than Jason’s. 

The path splits a few times, but Tim left clear footprints on the muddy ground, creating an easy path for Jason to follow. Jason nearly eats dirt when it takes a sharp turn. He catches his balance, catches sight Tim in a clearing up ahead. Tim’s stopped running, is just standing still in the middle of the clearing, his back to Jason. He’s standing over some kind of pit, a round cover flipped into the mud a few feet away. A well, Jason realizes. What is Tim doing? 

“Hey!” Jason calls out, already halfway to Tim. Tim flinches so hard at the sound of Jason’s voice that he stumbles, teeters on the edge of the well. 

Jason _lunges_ , just manages to snag the back of the kid’s hoodie before the kid can topple over, yanks him back. Tim struggles, trying to shove Jason off, but Jason would be a piss-poor Robin if some tiny kid could take him out. He gives the kid a shake. 

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Jason hisses. Tim is _still_ fighting, clawing ineffectively at Jason’s hands. Jason takes the opportunity to grab Tim’s wrists and wraps the kid into a safety hold, uses the leverage to drag him back a couple steps away from the well. 

“Get off!” Tim tries to snap his head back and headbutt Jason, but the kid’s head just bounces off Jason’s collarbone. 

“Jesus, kid, stop! It’s just me, it’s Jason!” Because okay. Jason did just run out of nowhere and grab a traumatized kid—he can’t blame Tim freaking out. 

Tim doesn’t stop, though. If anything, he struggles harder. 

“Let go! You have to—I need to get _rid_ of —It’s gonna—” And Tim’s hyperventilating. Shit. 

They’re still too close to the open well for comfort, but Tim is really starting to freak Jason out, so Jason spins him around, still keeping a grip on Tim’s wrists. 

“Tim, look at me.” He says, but Tim’s clearly more focused on trying to free his wrists. Jason tugs Tim a little closer. 

“Hey! Come on, kid, just look at me!” Jason says, tries to mimic the _this is an order_ voice that Bruce has perfected. 

To Jason’s surprise, the kid actually does. His eyes are huge, practically the size of dinner plates, the moonlight washing out his already-too-pale face, turning it ghostly white. Tim doesn’t stop trying to tug his wrists back, but he’s no longer fighting like a wildcat, which Jason takes as a win. 

“Come on, Tim, take a couple breaths.” Jason doesn’t know what’s going _on_. Tim does stop fighting then, although Jason isn’t entirely sure Tim was listening to him. 

The kid visibly takes a few stuttering breaths. Now that he’s stopped struggling, Jason can feel him shaking like a leaf. 

“I—please, Jason, you—you _have_ to let me go,” The kid’s voice wobbles enough that Jason thinks he’s about to burst into tears, “I have to—she needs the door and the key to come through, I have to get rid of the key, please—you can do it, just—it has to be _now_ , it’s not _safe_!” 

Jason’s eye catches on the kid’s necklace, a key on a string. That’s what Tim’s talking about? Jason lets go of one of Tim’s wrists to grab it, holds it up to eye level. It looks like a normal key, small and black, but—the tiny door in the corner room that had no handle, just a keyhole. The door the magic came from. 

“What—who is this _she_? What’s she going to do?” Jason needs more information, he can’t just toss some random key into a well at the kid’s say-so and inadvertently summon some eldritch being from the pits of hell. 

But Tim is getting more frantic by the second, starts to struggle again, and Jason can’t risk either of them falling into the well—who knows how deep it is. He drags Tim a few more steps back, grunts as Tim shoves a boney elbow into his stomach. 

“Tim, Jesus, Tim—just stop and _talk_ to me”. Tim doesn’t slow down, but he does choke out: 

“There’s no time, she can’t come through if she doesn’t have the key—” 

“If you have the key, Tim, how is she going to get through?” Jason doesn’t know who ‘she’ is, but he _really_ needs Tim to calm down and tell him. 

Jason’s words seem to stick for the first time, Tim freezing in place, but Jason realizes if something doesn’t change soon, Tim’s going to go buck wild. 

“Are we in _immediate_ danger?” Tim nods frantically in response, which isn’t great. 

“…And will tossing the key put us out of danger?” Tim nods again, starts tugging at his wrists. 

Jason exhales sharply, thinking fast. Toss the key and lose important evidence, or take Tim at his word? 

“Okay, we’ll toss the key,” Because it’s just a stupid well, if the key ends up being important B can fish it out later, “If you _promise_ to tell me what the _hell_ is going on.” 

Tim is already babbling an agreement, so Jason cautiously lets him go. He does keep one hand twisted in Timmy’s hoodie, because he trusts Tim about as far as he can throw him. 

Actually, scratch that. After dragging Tim around in that scuffle, Jason’s pretty sure he could yeet Tim a fair few yards. He trusts Tim about as far as _Tim_ could throw him. 

They cautiously approach the well. Jason looks down it, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say that it went down forever, an entrance to the abyss. He shakes that thought out of his head, because, no, it’s just a well. Tim starts to pulls the key over his head, and—

Something metallic flies in front of Jason’s face and slams into Tim. Its momentum, or whatever is propelling it, is enough that it _yanks_ Tim away and breaks Jason’s grip. Jason stumbles, slips to a knee because of the _stupid_ mud, rights himself, and Tim—Tim is a few feet away, clawing at his neck as the _thing_ drags him towards the house. 

Jason catches his first good glimpse of it, and a chill washes over him like ice water rushing down his spine. For a split second, he thinks it’s some kind of machine, the size of a chihuahua and skittering over the muddy ground—but realizes it’s a _hand_ , just a hand, no body, just cold metallic digits latched around the key and dragging Tim along with it like he weighs nothing. 

Jason forces himself to _move_ , grabs the closest rock from the muddy ground and scrambles to catch up, slams the rock down on the hand with all of his strength. The thing flattens under the weight of the rock, but just as quickly pops back up, the rock rolling off of it. Jason, moving entirely on instinct, _punts_ the hand as hard as he can, launching it into the undergrowth. 

He seizes the few seconds that buys him and tugs the key from around Tim’s neck, the kid wheezing as he struggles to catch his breath. Jason charges towards the well, makes it only a few feet before he feels a weight slam into his back, crawling over his shoulder in a horrifyingly spiderlike fashion, if spiders were sharp, weighed as much as a cat, and actively trying to kill him. It launches itself at his face, and despite himself, Jason staggers, trying to pull it off with the hand not holding the key. 

The fingers are sharp, like needles, and some part distant part of Jason thinks that’ll hurt like a bitch tomorrow. He manages keeps hold of the key, though, until he takes another step back and his foot meets empty air. He drops the key and launches himself forward, chest slamming into the mud and knocking the last of the air from his lungs, and –there’s nothing beneath his feet and he’s _sliding_. He scabbles at the ground, digging his fingers in for purchase, manages to stop himself from completely falling into the well. His legs kick over empty air, arms staining to keep himself up. He distantly registers the _ting-ting-ting_ of the key falling down and thinks _good riddance, fucker._ /p>

But the hand hadn’t fallen, its fingers digging into Jason’s leg. He tries to kick it off into the abyss, but it _clings_. It starts scuttles up his leg, using Jason’s body like a ladder and Jason can’t get it off because all his strength is going into making sure he doesn’t follow the key down into the well. Something stabs at his hands and he realizes that the hand isn’t scurrying back where it came from, it’s digging into his hands and he’s _going to fall—_

The hand disappears. Jason seizes the opportunity and heaves himself up, arms shaking, He manages to drag himself onto solid ground, rolls over, and forces himself up. He catches sight of Tim, a few feet away, roughly bundling his hoodie around the hand. The sharp ends are already tearing through the thin fabric, but before it can tear its way free, Tim throws the whole bundle into the well. Jason lunges for the well lid, discarded to the side and heaves, slamming it shut with a ringing _thud._

Jason sprawls back onto the ground, tries to catch his breath. Tim joins him on the ground, still wheezing alarmingly. In the sudden quiet, he can hear B’s voice in his comms. 

“—ason, report now.” B sounds panicked, and Jason wonders how long B’s trying to get him to respond. He forces his arm up, feeling like it’s made of lead, and taps the comm. 

“Hey, B.” Jason says, still trying to catch his breath. He can feel the cold seeping into his bones. Even so, he kind of wants to stay face down in the mud for the rest of eternity. 

“Report, Jay, what happened?” B doesn’t sound reassured, which is fair enough, considering. 

Jason pries his mouth open, tries to get his thoughts somewhat in order, because what the actual fuck just happened? 

“Uh. Tim was trying get rid of a key—I’m pretty it was for that door, but some fucking—hand-spider— _thing_ attacked us. We shut them both in a well, I don’t think they’re getting out any time soon. What happened over there?” 

Something must’ve happened. Otherwise B would’ve tracked him down the moment Jason hadn’t picked up. 

“There was another flare-up that just ended. Zatanna is on her way to check it out,” B is definitely downplaying, but Jason can pry that out of him later, because Bruce is already moving on. 

“Are either of you hurt?” 

To be honest, Jason can’t really feel anything right now, although he’s sure _everything_ is going to hurt tomorrow—later today, he supposes, since it’s practically morning. 

“I think we’re both good. Let me check.” 

He glances over at Tim, who’s laying a few feet away, still trying to catch his breath. He’s staring just a little blankly up at the sky, and Jason’s willing to bet Tim hadn’t caught any of the conversation. Nearly getting murdered will do that to you, Jason supposes. 

Jason heaves himself to his feet, walks over to Tim, nudges the kid with his foot. The kid blinks like he’d forgotten Jason was even there. Jason sighs, heaves the kid to his feet, scans him up and down. It’s a little pointless, because between the dark and the mud covering both of them, Jason can barely make out anything. The kid sways a bit but stays on his feet, so Jason takes that as a win. 

“Just bruises and scratches, I think,” Jason says, “I’ll take Tim back to the car, meet you there.” 

B grunts an affirmative, and the comms click off. 

Jason sighs, glances at Tim, who’s starting visibly shivering. Or shaking—eh, probably both. He looks a little less blank, though, which is good. Still, the kid _clearly_ isn’t going to be able to make it back at any reasonable speed, so Jason crouches down. 

“Hop on, kid.” Silence. A little concerned, Jason turns around, but the kid just looks confused. Jason rolls his eyes. 

“Piggy-back, come on.” This time, Tim hesitantly puts his arms around Jason’s neck and hops up.

Jason starts the hike back towards the manor, keeping an eye on the shadows, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original scene that popped into my head that made me want to write this whole thing! Hope you guys enjoyed :D


	9. Bruce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn what Bruce was occupied with last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA: Bruce is Very calm, the whole time.

Bruce stalks towards the east wing, senses on high alert. The sensor is still emitting a low-level whine, not yet loud enough to constitute an emergency, but alarming regardless. At least Jason hadn’t argued when Bruce sent him out—if something went wrong, Bruce doesn’t want Jason to get caught in the middle of it. Jason is perfectly capable, but facing whatever is in this house without weapons or the armored Robin uniform? Bruce isn’t taking that risk, not with Jason. 

The silence of the house is eerie, and by the time he reaches the room at the corner of the house, he’s more on edge than he’d like to admit. Bruce unlocks the door to the rom, glances at the sensor. If the magic was emanating from the smaller door like Bruce thinks, the sensor should be getting louder. It’s not. If anything, it tapers off more as he swings the door open. He steps in, keeping a batarang raised. 

Nothing immediately tries to kill him. He scans the room—no sign of anyone or anything out of—Bruce’s eyes catch on the window. It’s cracked open—barely three inches, but it hadn’t been open earlier. Immediately, he spins around, guard up. The room is silent. The smaller door is still locked, nothing else out of place. When he takes a look outside, the grounds are still and empty. Bruce frowns. 

If something had come in or out, there was no sign of it. The small door is still firmly locked, nothing could come out of there. But if something had come _in_ , it wouldn’t have been able to leave the room, either. Unless it had the presence of mind to lock the doors behind it and was still in the house. But the sensor’s alarm had lasted less than three seconds before dying down. If there was something magical in the house, it wouldn’t have stopped. The most logical theory would be some kind of aftershock. With two large, long-lasting magic bursts of unknown origin, brief spurts of unstable magic are sure to follow, like ripples in a pond. Aftershocks that could, potentially, open a window. It’s logical, but Bruce didn’t like it. 

In the meantime, though, Bruce inspects the smaller door again. Presses the sensor against it—no upticks or fluxuations. He crouches down, wincing when his knee pops. Placing his ear against the door, he gives it several hard raps. No echo. There’s no physical space behind it, then. Bruce leans back on his heels, giving it a long, hard stare. The door stands there, innocuous in its simplicity. He stands up and looks around the room again, reviewing the evidence from earlier. 

The stains—dirt and blood—on the carpet lend a clear story of Tim scrambling across the floor—away from the door. They track over to where the wardrobe once stood, evidenced by the clear imprints in the ground. When Bruce had moved it, it had been solid, but not overly heavy. Tim could’ve moved it by himself, albeit with a significant amount of effort. Tim had been trying to barricade the door closed, lending to the theory that at some point, something had tried to come out. 

Bruce tries to visualize what he knows. Tim, curious and bored, unlocking the tiny door. _Something_ reaching back out for Tim, leaving the hand-shaped bruise on the boy’s wrist in the struggle, before Tim manages to shut the door and lock it again—shoving the wardrobe in front and locking each door behind him just to be safe. 

It’s a start, but it’s far too full of holes. Whatever had been behind the door was _powerful_. How would Tim, eleven years old and small even for his age, fight it off the creature, much less trap it behind the door again? Not to mention there had been two energy spurts, and Tim’s hands had been significantly battered—more than what a single scuffle could cause. Why would Tim open the door twice? 

Bruce glares at the door. It doesn’t give him any answers. He turns away, ready to— Bruce whips around as the sensor _screams_ , dropping into a fighting stance. A sickly green light spills out from the door, filling the room with a light that illuminates nothing but sets shadows twisting and writhing across the room. A beat later, _something_ pounds on the door, shaking it. 

Bruce backs up, changes his comm frequency. 

“Zatanna. Get here.” He flicks off the comm before she responds, starts tracking the time. This is Zatanna’s area of expertise, and Bruce is here as a civilian. Fighting solo would be careless. She should be here in under seven minutes, and Bruce knows that suited up or not, he can hold off whatever it is. 

The thudding on the door doesn’t stop, getting stronger by the second until the door is bulging nearly out of its frame. Distorted shrieks echo from behind it. By all rights, the door should be pulverized by now, thin wood splitting and ancient hinges snapping, but against all logic it holds firm. There must be some sort of magic bound up in the lock, a part of Bruce notes clinically. He stays on the balls of his feet, ready to fling a batarang if the lock fails. 

At four minutes and twenty seven seconds, everything stops. The sudden silence feels almost more jarring than the screaming. Bruce doesn’t move, waits for the assault to begin again. Nothing. Thirty seconds pass. A minute. Still nothing. Bruce takes a step back. After another few beats, he flicks his comms on. 

“Jason. There’s been another spike. Stay at the manor.” Jason won’t be happy, but that’s not Bruce’s concern right now. 

Silence. 

A chill runs down Bruce’s spine. The first rule, the most important rule Bruce has on the comms is _always respond_. It doesn’t matter if it’s a single word, a grunt, or even just a tap, but responding is non-negotiable. Something is wrong. 

Bruce forces himself to be calm. Tries again. 

“Jason. Report.” 

Nothing. Bruce’s pulse skyrockets. His first instinct is to charge off, _find him_ because Jason is the most important thing he has, but Bruce _can’t_ leave the door unmonitored. Not until Zatanna gets here. He swears under his breath, tries again. And again. 

Then, finally, _finally_ , halfway through his fifth call, Jason responds. 

“Hey, B.” Jason sounds like he’s trying to catch his breath. Bruce exhales sharply. _Thank god_. 

“Report, Jay, what happened.” There’s a beat of silence, enough to make Bruce’s heart clench. 

“Uh. Tim was trying to get rid of a key—I’m pretty sure it was for that door, but some fucking—hand-spider- _thing_ attacked us. We shut them but in a well, they’re not getting out any time soon. What happened over there?” 

Bruce takes a second to process that. Two magic spikes within ten minutes and then an attack. Bruce eyes the open window, judges how far the door bent under the assault. Something small could’ve slipped out from the door and out the window, causing the shorter magic spike. Probably in an attempt to get the key and let out something larger. 

“There was another flare-up that just ended,” He answers Jason’s original question. A thump from somewhere else in the house, and— “Zatanna is on her way to check it out.” 

It’s the seven minute mark, that would be Zatanna arriving. That’s not what’s important right now, though, because Bruce hasn’t asked the question that’s keeping him on edge. 

“Are either of you hurt?” 

“I think we’re both good. Let me check.” 

Bruce doesn’t like the way Jason phrased that—he _thinks_ they’re good? That means he’s not sure—but Bruce reminds himself that adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and Jason has to check Tim. Jason’s knows what he’s doing. 

“Just bruises and scratches, I think,” Jason says, finally, and Bruce slumps ever-so-slightly in relief as Jason continues. “I’ll take Tim back to the car, meet you there.” 

Bruce forces out grunt in response, flicks the comms off. He needs to go, make sure they’re both alright, now. He trusts that Jason wouldn’t understate Tim’s injuries, but Jason has alarming habit of downplaying his own injuries. Bruce needs to confirm, with his own two eyes, that they are alright. 

Zatanna walks through the door, a little windswept. She opens her mouth but Bruce cuts her off, pointing at the small door. 

“Fix it.” 

He ignores her exasperated sigh as he sweeps past her. Zatanna is a professional. He has full faith that she will figure out what’s behind the door and make sure it stays locked away until they figure out how to kill it. Bruce has more important things to do right now. 

He doesn’t full-out run, he does manage to make it within eyesight of the car in minutes. Jason and Tim are already standing next to it. Both are filthy, absolutely covered in mud, but standing upright, which is a good sign. 

Bruce charges over, taking Jason by the shoulders. Checks him up and down. 

“Geez, B, not even a hello?” No obvious broken bones or severe lacerations. Abrasions on his hands, his coat ripped but no blood showing through. There’s blood on his face. Bruce cups Jason’s face in his hands, wipes away some of the mud. Superficial scratches. 

“B! I’m fine! Seriously, old man, can’t you take me at my word?” Jason has his hand on Bruce’s arm, but hasn’t pushed him off yet. He must be more rattled than he’s letting on. 

Bruce rests his forehead against Jason for a long moment. Breathes. Jason is okay. 

He pulls back, squeezes Jason’s shoulders once. Jason gives him a lopsided grin, then shoves him off, pulling Tim forward in the same movement. 

“I think he’s alright,” Jason says, keeping a grip on the boy’s shirt, “But the hand-thing caught him pretty hard around the neck.” 

Bruce hums an acknowledgement. He crouches down, tries to make eye contact with Tim. The boy gazes determinedly at the ground. 

“Hey, Tim,” He says, soft, “You okay?” 

Tim doesn’t answer, but Bruce wasn’t really expecting him to. 

“I’m going to check your, neck, alright?” Bruce continues. 

Tim doesn’t move, but just when Bruce is starting to get more concerned, he gives a slow nod. Bruce reaches out slowly, makes sure Tim can see what he’s doing, and tilts Tim’s chin up. There’s an angry red line around his throat, like someone tried to garrote him. The edges are already turning purple. He gently probes the boy’s throat to make sure his windpipe hasn’t been damaged. Tim is breathing fine, but it can’t hurt to be sure. The boy stays completely silent through the process, even though it has to hurt. 

Once he’s satisfied Tim’s neck is okay, he looks the rest of the boy over, making sure to walk Tim through what he’s doing. Tim has similar sluggishly bleeding scratches to Jason up and down his bare forearms, and he’s opened some of the scrapes on his hands, but nothing that’s urgent. The boy is shaking something fierce, teeth audibly chattering. Bruce is willing to bet its equal parts cold and shock. He whips off his own coat and wraps it snugly around the boy. 

“Alright. Let’s get you both back to Wayne Manor, get you both warm and then Alfred and I can patch you up.” 

Tim opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled croak. Bruce winces inwardly at the painful sound. Jason wraps his arm around Tim’s shoulders, starts to tug him towards the car. 

“C’mon Tim, you’re freezing. Alfie’ll make you some tea with honey for your throat, should fix you right up.” 

Tim digs his feet in. Bruce notices Jason subtly tightens his grip on the boy’s shirt. Tim must’ve tried to bolt earlier, that Jason is keeping such a hold on him. Tim works his mouth for a few second before he finally gets sound to come out. 

“The door,” Tim croaks, “Have to get rid of the door.” 

“That’s all I could get outta him earlier,” Jason says, giving the back of the boy’s head a hard stare, “He kept saying we had to get rid of the key and the door, or ‘she’ would come through. Kid won’t say anything else.” 

Tim meets Bruce’s eyes, holds his gaze. It’s the first time Tim has willing made eye contact with Bruce all night. It confirms what Bruce already knew: Tim knows exactly what’s going on. 

“Okay, Tim. We’ll destroy the door,” _If it’s possible to do that without releasing whatever is behind it_ , Bruce doesn’t say, “But first, we need to get you and Jason to safety.” 

Tim shakes him head mulishly. He shifts his eyes between Bruce and Jason, tenses, and Bruce knows in an instant that he’s going to run for it. 

Tim makes it half a step before being brought up short by Jason’s grip on his shirt. Quick as a flash, Jason grabs Tim’s upper arm, just as Tim starts to struggle. 

“Damnit, _again_? Chill the hell out!” Jason spits, but he sounds more upset than angry. 

Bruce takes Tim’s shoulders in his hands, holds the boy still before he can hurt himself. 

“Batman sent me over here to make sure you were alright,” Bruce says, “So that means you are my priority.” 

Tim shakes his head frantically, his eyes fixed over Bruce’s shoulder at Drake Manor. Bruce can feel the boy’s pulse, faster than a jackrabbit, feels the boy shaking from more than the cold. Tim knows what is behind the door, and he is _terrified_ of it. But he’s willing, more than willing, _desperate_ , to go back in, risking facing it again, just to make sure no one else gets hurt. 

Bruce takes a breath. The Drakes don’t deserve this boy. 

“Tim. I’ve already called Batman and—” Tim is already shaking his head, if anything looking more panicked. 

“And,” Bruce repeats, “He’s called in an expert. She’s already arrived and is monitoring the door.” 

Tim shifts his gaze to Bruce, disbelieving. Bruce nods, tries to fill the gesture with as much reassurance as he can. It works a little too well. Tim lets out a shaky breath, and Bruce barely manages to shift his grip before the boy’s legs buckle. 

“Easy, Tim,” Bruce breathes, “It’s okay.” Tim grips Bruce’s arms, clearly trying to get his feet back under him, but Bruce is having none of that. He sweeps the boy up into his arms, carries him the few steps to the car. Jason opens the car door so Bruce can slide him in. 

“Is he okay?” Jason asks, when Bruce slides out, voice unusually quiet. 

“He will be.” Bruce says, puts his hand on Jason’s shoulder. 

Jason bites his lip for a moment, scanning Bruce’s face. Eventually, he nods and slides into the car to sit next to Tim, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulders. 

It’s time to go home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zatanna was going to have a larger role in this chapter, but then I realized I’ve literally never interacted with any media she’s in and I have no idea how to portray her. Oops?


	10. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim tries to process what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA: please just let Tim sleep.

Tim blinks, he swears he just blinked, but when he opens his eyes the car is in front of Wayne Manor. He doesn’t— he doesn’t feel right. Everything’s a step removed, like Tim is watching someone else go through the motions. But it’s not—things keep skipping. He’s in the car, he blinks, and he’s standing on the gravel driveway as Jason tugs him to the door. He’s inside, with warm yellow light and soft carpet. He doesn’t like this. It’s not—he doesn’t—he doesn’t feel right, he’s not feeling at all, like his head is stuffed with clouds and he’s lost the tether keeping him to the ground. 

Warmth in his hands. Tim looks down and he’s holding a half-empty mug of tea. He doesn’t remember getting it. Doesn’t remember drinking it. But it’s warm, so he focuses on that. Eventually, piece by piece, he comes back together. He’s uncomfortably wet and cold, but there’s a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and he doesn’t feel frozen anymore. Everything aches and his arms sting sharply, but even that is better than the unsettling emptiness. 

Tim looks around. Bruce and Jason are nowhere in sight, but he’s pretty sure he’s sitting in Wayne Manor’s kitchen. A clatter sounds behind him, and he nearly throws the tea on sheet instinct. 

“Sorry to startle you, Master Tim.” Tim whips around and, oh. Mr. Pennyworth is standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up. Mr. Pennyworth walks briskly over to him. 

“You’re looking better, good.” Is all he says, motioning to the tea. Tim feels wrong-footed and still a little bit like this is a bizarre dream but takes a sip. It’s good. Tim’s not really a tea person, but it soothes his throat, dulling the ache. He thinks he remembers Jason saying something about super-tea on the way here. If so, Jason was right. 

“Do you know where you are?” Mr. Pennyworth asks, and what kind of question is that? 

“Wayne Manor,” Tim replies hoarsely. Mr. Pennyworth smiles. 

“Pardon my manners. I am Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne’s butler.” Tim nods, because he knows that. Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t know he knows that though, right? 

“Tim Drake.” Mr. Pennyworth definitely knew that already, but manners are an easy thing for Tim to fall back on. 

Mr. Pennyworth straightens the blanket around Tim which is—nice. Tim could’ve done it himself, though, he’s not sure why Mr. Pennyworth did that. 

“You seem to have had quite the eventful few days, young sir.” And—how can Tim even start to reply to that? A beat passes. Tim shrugs. 

Alfred fixes him with a piercing stare. It feels a little like being x-rayed—like Mr. Pennyworth can see everything about Tim with just that glance. It’s not entirely bad, though. Mr. Pennyworth just gives a short hum under his breath and moves on after a beat. Tim’s not really sure what to do, so he sips at his tea. 

The quiet remains as Tim finishes his tea, but it’s a very different sort of quiet than what Tim is used to. It’s not carnivorous, just—comfortable. It’s weird. 

When Tim has finished his tea, Mr. Pennyworth takes the mug, sets it aside. 

“Come, now, Master Tim, let’s get you cleaned up.” With that, Mr. Pennyworth starts to shoo Tim off the chair and out of the kitchen. He’s just at the doorway when it hits him—where are Jason and Bruce? If they went back, it’s not safe—

“Master Bruce and young Jason are off cleaning themselves up,” Mr. Pennyworth says, puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder, steers him into the hallway. “I can assure you, they are just fine.” 

They walk through the manor halls, Mr. Pennyworth lightly ushering him towards a door. Tim looks back and—he’s tracked mud through the house. It’s ground into the carpet, and he _knows_ it will take ages to clean, if it doesn’t stain. Mr. Pennyworth follows his gaze. 

“Don’t you fret about that, Master Tim. I’m very accustomed to mud being tracked through the house. You should witness the mess when Master Dick comes home, it’s a fright.” That’s not. He just caused so much _work_ for Mr. Pennyworth, but the man is already ushering Tim into the room. 

“The bathroom is to your right. I’ll dig through storage and find you some clothes you can changed into while you get warmed up.” With that, Mr. Pennyworth squeezes his shoulder once and leaves. 

Tim mechanically goes into the bathroom, peels off his wet and muddy clothes. He’s struck with déjà vu when he steps under the warm spray, because it’s the exact same as six hours ago, but everything has changed. He lets the hot water wash away the last of the icy chill that’s sunk into Tim’s bones. His brain slowly but surely flicks through what just happened and—

Is it actually…over? He thought it was over last time. But then the Beldam’s hand was around the key, dragging him back to the house by the neck, where she was waiting to take his eyes, which was—a can of worms in definitely not opening right now. He shakes himself. The key is gone, and Tim remembers Bruce saying that he’d called in backup for the door. That meant Justice League, right? Or some magic user that could keep the Beldam at bay. He was in _Batman’s_ house, anyways. Nothing could get him here, right? Right. Tim boxes those thoughts away. He has nothing to worry about. 

Except for Batman and Robin. He’s run out of plausible deniability for their questions, but he can’t answer them. He knows he promised Jason—but that was a promise made under duress, those aren’t legally binding, right? But Batman was a vigilante, so he’s not really concerned with the whole “legality” thing. Tim thinks for a minute. He’d agreed to tell Jason what was going on if Jason let Tim throw the key in the well. Tim hadn’t technically thrown the key into the well, so he wouldn’t be breaking his promise, right? Right. 

Tim stays in the shower for what’s almost definitely far too long, before reluctantly turning the water off. He dries off with a frankly absurdly fluffy towel, wrappings it around his hips as he leaves the bathroom. There’s some clothes folded neatly on the bed—Alfred must’ve left them out earlier. Tim slides them on, rolls the sweatpants up four times so he doesn’t trip. Tim definitely does not take a few moments to wonder who’s clothes they are—either Dick’s or Jason’s—but getting excited about that would definitely be weird and a little creepy, so Tim definitely doesn’t think about it. 

He looks around the room. He can see his house from the window—knows exactly which room he is in. Being in the house he’s lowkey stalked for years feels—it feels. Tim doesn’t know. It’s surreal, but it also just feels wrong because Tim doesn’t belong here. He sits on the bed. He could just…sleep. Burrow himself in blankets and hibernate until all of this is just a distant memory and wake up in his own bed. The thought rings hollow. Waking up at home doesn’t feel comforting anymore which is—it’s—Tim doesn’t know. 

A knock on the door startles Tim, just as he was about to collapse onto the bed. Jason pops his head in before Tim can even gather himself to respond. When Jason catches sight of him, his whole face crinkles into a smile. Almost on instinct, Tim’s lips twitch in return. Jason strides over, catching him by the shoulders and looking him up at down. 

“Glad you’re back with us!” He says, and Tim isn’t entirely sure exactly what Jason means, there, but Jason’s already moving on. 

“Oh, Alfie found you some of Dick’s old stuff, neat, “ And Tim is not going to process that right now because if he thinks about it, he’s sure going to do something embarrassing, “Anyways! Bruce wants to check you over, make sure everything’s okay.” 

Jason’s already frog-marching Tim down the hallway before Tim can even blink. 

“I—he already did that, though? When you first came over?” Jason frowns at him, gently grabs Tim’s arm. 

“Uh, yeah, but you literally just got banged up again, kid.” He holds Tim’s arm up, displaying the scratches that the Beldam’s hand had left behind. Tim doesn’t really get it. Sure, they stung a bit, but he literally _just_ cleaned them out in the shower. He didn’t need to bother Bruce about that. 

Some of his confusion must show on his face, because Jason sighs, throws an arm around Tim’s shoulder. 

“It’s just a precaution, y’know? Same reason Bruce wanted to check out your hands earlier. He already looked me over while you were with Alfie, even though there was literally nothing wrong with me.” 

Tim frowns, because first of all, Jason has scratches all over his face, and second of all, Jason almost fell down the well. That had to have hurt, right? 

Jason catches the look, shoots Tim a lopsided grin. 

“See, you’re as bad as Bruce! I’m _fine_ , kid, don’t give me that face. I’ll be sore for sure tomorrow, though. My back is already hurting, and I can’t get it to pop. Wish I could pluck out my spine and crack it like a whip.” Jason flicks his hand, makes a little sound effect to go with it, and Tim startles even himself by laughing. 

Jason looks pleased with himself, giving Tim’s shoulders a light squeeze. He starts up a running commentary on everything they pass. Tim listens with half an ear, even though he wants to pay attention, he really does, but he’s so tired he’s starting to wonder if he can sleep while walking. 

It only takes a minute before they turn a corner and reach a living room. It looks cozy, small and strewn with mismatched pillows and blankets. Bruce is sitting on one of the armchairs, fiddling with a phone. He looks tired, Tim thinks—a pang of guilt springs up, because Tim is the reason Bruce and Jason have been up for so long. 

“Brought you a delivery, B!” Jason chirps, steering Tim over to a nearby couch. Jason plops down next to him, well into Tim’s personal space. It’s…a lot, and Tim knows he should mind, should shift away, but. It feels nice. 

Mr. Wayne looks up and smiles when he sees Tim, which is just flat out _weird_ because Tim is pretty sure he’s caused the man nothing but problems since they’ve met. Longer, technically. 

“Hey there, Tim. How are you feeling?” Everyone seems to be asking that one way or another, and Tim still has absolutely no idea, so he shrugs. 

“Alright, I guess,” Tim replies, but that doesn’t seem to be the answer Mr. Wayne wanted, judging by the way his brow creases. 

Thankfully, Mr. Wayne seems willing to let it go, shifting his attention to Tim’s arms. They’ve stopped bleeding by now, but there’s enough of them to take Mr. Wayne’s attention. 

“Eesh, Tim,” Jason says, “Although I gotta say, that’s got nothing on some of Bruce’s adventures, though.” 

Tim snaps his attention to Jason, because _what_. That—is Jason talking about Batman? 

“Oh yeah, there was this one time B ran straight through a sliding glass door—” Bruce gives a low, exasperated sigh, “Oh, shut up, Bruce, you know it was hilarious!” 

Jason launches into the story, drawing vivid descriptions of Bruce, just back from a red-eye flight and sick as a dog with the flu, and Tim is engaged enough that he barely notices Bruce dabbing hydrogen peroxide on his cuts. By the time Jason gets to the punchline, Tim is straight-out laughing at the image of Batman, the Dark Knight of Gotham, running straight into a glass door. 

Jason immediately jumps into another story as Mr. Wayne rewraps Tim’s hands, again. Tim’s attention wavers, as hard as he tries to stay focused, as each of his blinks seem to last longer and longer. He feels heavy, slowly sinking down and slumping into Jason. 

“Tim?” At Mr. Wayne’s voice, Tim snaps himself back to almost-alertness, tries to sit up, but Jason keeps him tucked into his side. 

“Sorry, Tim,” And Mr. Wayne actually looks remorseful, for some reason, “But I need to ask for your nanny’s number to let her know you’ll be staying here for the night.” 

Tim immediately goes tense, shrugging off Jason’s arm. He looks at Mr. Wayne, and—Mr. Wayne knows. There’s no way around it. He must’ve looked into it, probably back at Tim’s house, and Tim has run out of excuses. 

He opens his mouth to try, regardless, because he can’t just give up, but Mr. Wayne cuts him off. 

“I’m sorry to have invaded your privacy,” Mr. Wayne says, “but I asked Batman to look into it, earlier. There is no nanny, is there?” 

Tim clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head, his tower of secrets teetering, but Mr. Wayne continues anyways. 

“You can’t be left alone for that long, Tim,” That’s not fair, because Tim can take care of himself, he has been for _years_ and hasn’t had any problems, “And after what happened tonight, I can’t send you back to that house.” 

“But—” Tim starts, not even sure what he’s going to say, but he has to make Mr. Wayne understand that he’s _fine_ , he’s not some dumb kid, he doesn’t need supervision, but Mr. Wayne cuts him off. 

“Tim. Think for a second. Do you really want to go back to your house?” The question is gentle. 

Tim automatically opens his mouth because of course he wants to go home, with the Beldam gone everything can just go back to _normal_. But. It wouldn’t, would it? He’d just be sitting alone in that empty, carnivorous silence day after day, knowing the Beldam is out there, even if she can’t come back through. 

Mr. Wayne must take his silence as confirmation, because he moves on with barely a beat of hesitation. 

“We’re more than happy to have you stay here, with us, until your parents come home. We can work everything else out from there.” 

And. Tim can’t stay here. His parents will be upset. But Mr. Wayne isn’t threatening to go to the police, he’s saying they can work things out, and it’s not—he’s not—

“Geez, Tim, we’re not that bad, right?” Jason pokes him, hard. Tim’s trying—it’s just—Tim can’t _think_ , and even though he _knows_ it’s a bad idea, he nods slowly. And. 

That’s it. His tower of secrets has toppled, leaving him sitting in the pieces, but…it doesn’t feel like the world has ended. It doesn’t really feel like anything. To be honest, Tim just feels tired. 

Mr. Wayne still looks serious. Tim knows what’s coming next—they want to know about the Beldam. He curls his shoulders inwards. 

“Tim. I wouldn’t ask this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but—” He’s cut off by his phone ringing. Pulling it out, he looks at it and frowns. Glances at Jason. 

“I have to take this. I’ll be right back.” 

As Mr. Wayne leaves the room, Jason reels Tim back into his side. Tim stares at where Mr. Wayne left because—was it about the door? What if—

A hard flick between his eyebrows. Tim twists to look at Jason. 

“Sorry, Timbers. You were thinking too hard.” Jason doesn’t look very sorry. Tim frowns, but turns back to the door. He fidgets in his seat. 

“You know you’re not in trouble, right?” Jason asks, more seriously this time, “B just needs to know what happened. If it’s easier, you could tell me?” 

Tim really doesn’t. But he doesn’t have any more excuses—he doesn’t have any reason to hide what happened, not anymore. If he spills it all now, Jason can tell Mr. Wayne, and Tim can sleep and just—not, for a little while. 

Because—how does he put what happened into words? The last few days have been all slow, creeping _wrongness_ and bursts of sheer terror and Tim. Even if he could find the words—he doesn’t _want_ to. Walking them through every detail means reliving every moment in horrifying detail, and Tim—Tim can’t do that. He can’t. He just wants—he wants to _forget_. Maybe then he could feel actually safe for just a few moments and be able to shake the bone-deep exhaustion and terror from his bones. His eyes are burning, and he can’t tell if it’s from unshed tears or from the fact that he’s just so _tired_. 

“I—I _can’t_ —” Tim’s voice cracks so badly he cuts off entirely. Clamps his mouth closed because he’s _not_ going to cry right now. 

“I know, kid,” Why does Jason sound upset? Tim doesn’t—Jason tucks Tim into a hug, rests his chin on Tim’s head. Tim freezes. It soft and warm and nice and Tim doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“It’s hard, I know, but I _promise_ ,” Jason squeezes gently, “You’ll feel better once it’s out; bottling it up is just going to make it hurt more.” 

Tim shakes his head, because that’s not true, it can’t hurt any more—that’s not possible. He’s trying to hold on to his ragged edges, pull himself together, but it’s not _working_. He needs—he can’t—

Jason pulls back, and he looks so _concerned_ that Tim wants to die on the spot. 

“Tim—” He cuts himself off, squints at Tim’s face, “When was the last time you slept?” 

Tim’s thrown off a bit, because why does that matter, and he slept just a few hours ago, what was Jason talking about? 

“More than, like, an hour or two, kid. You look—” Jason cuts himself off again. Winces. 

Tim thinks about it, tries to get his breathing under control, and—he’s not sure. It’s Sunday almost-morning, and he hadn’t slept the night before because he’d been trying to get out, and the night before _that_ he’d only grabbed an hour or two because the Other world had so much to explore. So then it had been the night before he’d found the door—

“Wednesday?” His voice only shakes a little bit, there. 

“ _Jesus_ , Tim, no wonder you’re—” Jason just gestures at all of him, “How are you still, like, functioning?” Tim frowns because first of all, rude, and second of all, he’d say he isn’t currently functioning very well at all. He settles for a shrug. 

Jason doesn’t look very happy at that. 

“Look, you _need_ to talk about this—for your own sake, but also so we don’t miss anything—but jeez—” Jason sighs, setting his shoulders. He pulls Tim off the couch. 

“Let’s get you to bed. This can wait until you’re not dead on your feet.” 

Tim slumps in relief. It’s short lived, because Mr. Wayne strides back in, phone still held up to his ear. And—that’s not Mr. Wayne, that’s _Batman_ —all intensity and sharp focus.

“Tim, I need to know, right now. Was it a Beldam?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was up late! I have...no excuses.
> 
> Unfortunately, my spring semester starts tomorrow so updates are going to slow down (probably once every 2-3 days) now that I can’t spend like seven hours straight writing every day. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!


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